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ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


AN  ALABASTER  BOX 


Money !  "   she  whispered.     "  He  must  have  hidden  it  be 
fore—before—"  [PAGE  286] 


An 
ALABASTER  BOX 


BY 

MARY  E.  WILKINS  FREEMAN 

AND 

FLORENCE  MORSE  KINGSLEY 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 
STOCKTON  MULFORD 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917.  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


£t 

i 


«       - 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


There  came  a  woman,  having  an  alabaster 

box  of  ointment,  lery  precious;  and  she  broke 
the  box 


392551 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Money !  "   she  whispered.    "  He   must  have 

hidden  it  before  —  before  — "     ....     Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"  Oh,  I  can  see  you  in  the  glass,  mother,"  she  cried  .     .     74 

Her  face  upturned  to  his  in  the  moonlight,  wore  the 
austere  loveliness  of  a  saint's 94 

"  Just  hold  on  a  minute ;  I'm  coming  to  that,"  said  Miss 
Daggett  firmly i32 


AN  ALABASTER  BOX 

CHAPTER  I 

WE,"  said  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  with  weighty 
emphasis,  "  are  going  to  get  up  a  church 
fair  and  raise  that  money,  and  we  are 
going  to  pay  your  salary.  We  can't  stand  it  an 
other  minute.  We  had  better  run  in  debt  to  the 
butcher  and  baker  than  to  the  Lord." 

Wesley  Elliot  regarded  her  gloomily.  "  I  never 
liked  the  idea  of  church  fairs  very  well,"  he  returned 
hesitatingly.  "  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  like  sheer 
beggary." 

"  Then,"  said  Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  "  we  will  beg." 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  was  a  woman  who  had  always 
had  her  way.  There  was  not  one  line  which  denoted 
yielding  in  her  large,  still  handsome  face,  set  about 
with  very  elaborate  water-waves  which  she  had  ar 
ranged  so  many  years  that  her  black  hair  needed 
scarcely  any  attention.  It  would  almost  seem  as  if 
Mrs.  Solomon  Black  had  been  born  with  water  waves. 

She  spoke  firmly  but  she  smiled,  as  his  mother 
might  have  done,  at  the  young  man,  who  had  preached 
his  innocent  best  in  Brookville  for  months  without  any 
emolument. 

"  Now  don't  you  worry  one  mite  about  it,"  said 

I 


AN  ALABASTER  BOX 


she.  "  Church  fairs  may  be  begging,  but  they  belong 
to  the  history  of  the  United  States  of  America,  and  I 
miss  my  guess  if  there  would  have  been  much  preach 
ing  of  the  gospel  in  a  good  many  places  without 
them.  I  guess  it  ain't  any  worse  to  hold  church  fairs 
in  this  country  than  it  is  to  have  the  outrageous  go 
ings  on  in  the  old  country.  I  guess  we  can  cheat  a 
little  with  mats  and  cakes  and  things  and  not  stand 
any  more  danger  of  hell-fire  than  all  those  men  put 
ting  each  other's  eyes  out  and  killing  everybody  they 
can  hit,  and  spending  the  money  for  guns  and  awful 
exploding  stuff  that  ought  to  go  for  the  good  of  the 
world.  I  ain't  worried  one  mite  about  church  fairs 
when  the  world  is  where  it  is  now.  You  just  run 
right  into  your  study,  Mr.  Elliot,  and  finish  your  ser 
mon;  and  there's  a  pan  of  hot  doughnuts  on  the 
kitchen  table.  You  go  through  the  kitchen  and  get 
some  doughnuts.  We  had  breakfast  early  and  you 
hadn't  ought  to  work  too  hard  on  an  empty  stomach. 
You  run  along.  Don't  you  worry.  All  this  is  up  to 
me  and  Maria  Dodge  and  Abby  Daggett  and  a  few 
others.  You  haven't  got  one  blessed  thing  to  do  with 
it.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  preach  as  well  as  you 
can,  and  keep  us  from  a  free  fight.  Almost  always 
there  is  a  fuss  when  women  get  up  a  fair.  If  you  can 
preach  the  gospel  so  we  are  all  on  speaking  terms 
when  it  is  finished,  you  will  earn  your  money  twice 
over.  Run  along." 

Wesley  Elliot  obeyed.  He  always  obeyed,  at  least 
in  the  literal  sense,  when  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  ordered 
him.  There  was  about  her  a  fairly  masterly  mater- 

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nity.  She  loved  the  young  minister  as  firmly  for  his 
own  good  as  if  he  had  been  her  son.  She  chuckled 
happily  when  she  heard  him  open  the  kitchen  door. 
"  He'll  light  into  those  hot  doughnuts,"  she  thought. 
She  loved  to  pet  the  boy  in  the  man. 

Wesley  Elliot  in  his  study  upstairs  —  a  makeshift 
of  a  study  —  sat  munching  hot  doughnuts  and  reflect 
ing.  He  had  only  about  one-third  of  his  sermon  writ 
ten  and  it  was  Saturday,  but  that  did  not  disturb  him. 
He  had  a  quick-moving  mind.  He  sometimes  won 
dered  whether  it  did  not  move  too  quickly.  Wesley 
was  not  a  conceited  man  in  one  sense.  He  never  had 
doubt  of  his  power,  but  he  had  grave  doubts  of  the 
merits  of  his  productions.  However,  today  he  was 
glad  of  the  high  rate  of  speed  of  which  he  was  capable, 
and  did  not  worry  as  much  as  he  sometimes  did  about 
his  landing  at  the  exact  goal.  He  knew  very  well  that 
he  could  finish  his  sermon,  easily,  eat  his  doughnuts, 
and  sit  reflecting  as  long  as  he  chose.  He  chose  to  do  so 
for  a  long  time,  although  his  reflections  were  not  par 
ticularly  happy  ones.  When  he  had  left  the  theologi 
cal  seminary  a  year  ago,  he  had  had  his  life  planned 
out  so  exactly  that  it  did  not  seem  possible  to  him 
that  the  plans  could  fail.  He  had  graduated  at  the 
head  of  his  class.  He  had  had  no  doubt  of  a  city 
church.  One  of  the  professors,  a  rich  man  with  much 
influence,  had  practically  promised  him  one.  Wesley 
went  home  to  his  doting  mother,  and  told  her  the 
news.  Wesley's  mother  believed  in  much  more  than 
the  city  church.  She  believed  her  son  to  be  capable 
of  anything.  "  I  shall  have  a  large  salary,  mother," 

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boasted  Wesley,  "  and  you  shall  have  the  best  clothes 
money  can  buy,  and  the  parsonage  is  sure  to  be  beau 
tiful." 

"  How  will  your  old  mother  look  in  fine  feathers, 
in  such  a  beautiful  home?"  asked  Wesley's  mother, 
but  she  asked  as  a  lovely,  much-petted  woman  asks 
such  a  question.  She  had  her  little  conscious  smile  all 
ready  for  the  rejoinder  which  she  knew  her  son  would 
not  fail  to  give.  He  was  very  proud  of  his  mother. 

"  Why,  mother,"  he  said,  "  as  far  as  that  goes,  I 
wouldn't  balk  at  a  throne  for  you  as  queen  dowager." 

"  You  are  a  silly  boy,"  said  Mrs.  Elliot,  but  she  stole 
a  glance  at  herself  in  an  opposite  mirror,  and  smiled 
complacently.  She  did  not  look  old  enough  to  be  the 
mother  of  her  son.  She  was  tall  and  slender,  and 
fair-haired,  and  she  knew  how  to  dress  well  on  her 
very  small  income.  She  was  rosy,  and  carried  herself 
with  a  sweet  serenity.  People  said  Wesley  would  not 
need  a  wife  as  long  as  he  had  such  a  mother.  But  he 
did  not  have  her  long.  Only  a  month  later  she  died, 
and  while  the  boy  was  still  striving  to  play  the  role 
of  hero  in  that  calamity,  there  came  news  of  another. 
His  professor  friend  had  a  son  in  the  trenches.  The 
son  had  been  wounded,  and  the  father  had  obeyed  a 
hurried  call,  found  his  son  dead,  and  himself  died  of 
the  shock  on  the  return  voyage.  Wesley,  mourning 
the  man  who  had  been  his  stanch  friend,  was  guiltily 
conscious  of  his  thwarted  ambition.  "  There  goes  my 
city  church,"  he  thought,  and  flung  the  thought  back 
at  himself  in  anger  at  his  own  self-seeking.  He  was 
forced  into  accepting  the  first  opportunity  which  of- 

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fered.  His  mother  had  an  annuity,  which  he  himself 
had  insisted  upon  for  her  greater  comfort.  When 
she  died,  the  son  was  nearly  penniless,  except  for  the 
house,  which  was  old  and  in  need  of  repair. 

He  rented  that  as  soon  as  he  received  his  call  to 
Brookville,  after  preaching  a  humiliating  number  of 
trial  sermons  in  other  places.  Wesley  was  of  the 
lowly  in  mind,  with  no  expectation  of  inheriting  the 
earth,  when  he  came  to  rest  in  the  little  village  and 
began  boarding  at  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's.  But  even 
then  he  did  not  know  how  bad  the  situation  really  was. 
He  had  rented  his  house,  and  the  rent  kept  him  in 
decent  clothes,  but  not  enough  books.  He  had  only 
a  little  shelf  filled  with  the  absolutely  necessary  vol 
umes,  most  of  them  relics  of  his  college  course.  He 
did  not  know  that  there  was  small  chance  of  even 
his  meager  salary  being  paid  until  June,  and  he  had 
been  ordained  in  February.  He  had  wondered  why 
nobody  said  anything  about  his  reimbursement.  He 
had  refrained  from  mentioning  it,  to  even  his  deacons. 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  had  revealed  the  state  of  af 
fairs,  that  morning.  "  You  may  as  well  know,"  said 
she.  "  There  ain't  a  cent  to  pay  you,  and  I  said  when 
you  came  that  if  we  couldn't  pay  for  gospel  privileges 
we  should  all  take  to  our  closets  and  pray  like  Sam 
Hill,  and  no  charge;  but  they  wouldn't  listen  to  me, 
though  I  spoke  right  out  in  conference  meeting  and 
it's  seldom  a  woman  does  that,  you  know.  Folks  in 
this  place  have  been  hanging  onto  the  ragged  edge  of 
nothing  so  long  they  don't  seem  to  sense  it.  They 
thought  the  money  for  your  salary  was  going  to  be 

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brought  down  from  heaven  by  a  dove  or  something, 
when  all  the  time,  those  wicked  flying  things  are  going 
round  on  the  other  side  of  the  earth,  and  there  don't 
seem  as  if  there  could  be  a  dove  left.  Well,  now 
that  the  time's  come  when  you  ought  to  be  paid,  if 
there's  any  decency  left  in  the  place,  they  comes  to  me 
and  says, '  Oh,  Mrs.  Black,  what  shall  we  do  ?  '  I  said, 
'  Why  didn't  you  listen  when  I  spoke  out  in  meeting 
about  our  not  being  able  to  afford  luxuries  like  gos 
pel  preaching  ? '  and  they  said  they  thought  matters 
would  have  improved  by  this  time.  Improved! 
How,  I'd  like  to  know?  The  whole  world  is  sliding 
down  hill  faster  and  faster  every  minute,  and  folks  in 
Brookville  think  matters  are  going  to  improve,  when 
they  are  sliding  right  along  with  the  Emperor  of 
Germany  and  the  King  of  England,  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  big  bugs.  I  can't  figure  it  out,  but  in  some 
queer,  outlandish  way  that  war  over  there  has  made 
it  so  folks  in  Brookville  can't  pay  their  minister's  sal 
ary.  They  didn't  have  much  before,  but  such  a  one 
got  a  little  for  selling  eggs  and  chickens  that  has  had 
to  eat  them,  and  the  street  railway  failed,  and  the 
chair  factory,  that  was  the  only  industry  left  here, 
failed,  and  folks  that  had  a  little  to  pay  had  to  eat 
their  payings.  And  here  you  are,  and  it's  got  to  be  the 
fair.  Seems  queer  the  war  in  Europe  should  be  the 
means  of  getting  up  a  fair  in  Brookville,  but  I  guess 
it'll  get  up  more'n  that  before  they're  through  fight 
ing." 

All  this  had  been  the  preliminary  to  the  speech  which 
sent  Wesley  forth  for  doughnuts,  then  to  his  study, 

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ostensibly  to  finish  his  lovely  sermon,  but  in  reality  to 
think  thoughts  which  made  his  young  forehead,  of 
almost  boyhood,  frown,  and  his  pleasant  mouth  droop, 
then  inexplicably  smooth  and  smile.  It  was  a  day 
which  no  man  in  the  flush  of  youth  could  resist.  That 
June  day  fairly  rioted  in  through  the  open  windows. 
Mrs.  Black's  muslin  curtains  danced  in  the  June  breeze 
like  filmy-skirted  nymphs.  Wesley,  whose  imagina 
tion  was  active,  seemed  to  see  forced  upon  his  eager, 
yet  reluctant,  eyes,  radiant  maidens,  flinging  their  white 
draperies  about,  dancing  a  dance  of  the  innocence 
which  preludes  the  knowledge  of  love.  Sweet  scents 
came  in  through  the  windows,  almond  scents,  honey 
scents,  rose  scents,  all  mingled  into  an  ineffable  bou 
quet  of  youth  and  the  quest  of  youth. 

Wesley  rose  stealthily;  he  got  his  hat;  he  tiptoed 
across  the  room.  Heavens !  how  thankful  he  was  for 
access  to  the  back  stairs.  Mrs.  Black  was  sweeping 
the  parlor,  and  the  rear  of  the  house  was  deserted. 
Down  the  precipitous  back  stairs  crept  the  young  min 
ister,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  broom  on  Mrs. 
Black's  parlor  carpet.  As  long  as  that  regular  swish 
continued  he  was  safe.  Through  the  kitchen  he 
passed,  feeling  guilty  as  he  smelled  new  peas  cooking 
for  his  delectation  on  Mrs.  Black's  stove.  Out  of  the 
kitchen  door,  under  the  green  hood  of  the  back  porch, 
and  he  was  afield,  and  the  day  had  him  fast.  He  did 
not  belong  any  more  to  his  aspirations,  to  his  high  and 
noble  ambitions,  to  his  steadfast  purpose  in  life.  He 
belonged  to  the  spring  of  the  planet  from  which  his 
animal  life  had  sprung.  Young  Wesley  Elliot  became 

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one  with  June,  with  eternal  youth,  with  joy  which  es 
capes  care,  with  the  present  which  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  past  or  the  future,  with  that  day  sufficient 
unto  itself,  that  day  dangerous  for  those  whose  feet 
are  held  fast  by  the  toils  of  the  years. 

Wesley  sped  across  a  field  which  was  like  a  field  of 
green  glory.  He  saw  a  hollow  like  a  nest,  blue  with 
violets,  and  all  his  thoughts  leaped  with  irresponsive 
joy.  He  crossed  a  brook  on  rocky  stones,  as  if  he 
were  crossing  a  song.  A  bird  sang  in  perfect  tune 
with  his  mood.  He  was  bound  for  a  place  which  had 
a  romantic  interest  for  him :  the  unoccupied  parsonage, 
which  he  could  occupy  were  he  supplied  with  a  salary 
and  had  a  wife.  He  loved  to  sit  on  the  back  veranda 
and  dream.  Sometimes  he  had  company.  Brookville 
was  a  hot  little  village,  with  a  long  line  of  hills  cutting 
off  the  south  wind,  but  on  that  back  veranda  of  the  old 
parsonage  there  was  always  a  breeze.  Sometimes  it 
seemed  mysterious  to  Wesley,  that  breeze.  It  never 
failed  in  the  hottest  days.  Now  that  the  parsonage 
was  vacant,  women  often  came  there  with  their  needle 
work  of  an  afternoon,  and  sat  and  sewed  and  chatted. 
Wesley  knew  of  the  custom,  and  had  made  them  wel 
come.  But  sometimes  of  a  morning  a  girl  came. 
Wesley  wondered  if  she  would  be  there  that  morn 
ing.  After  he  had  left  the  field,  he  plunged  knee-deep 
through  the  weedage  of  his  predecessor's  garden,  and 
heart-deep  into  luxuriant  ranks  of  dewy  vegetables 
which  he,  in  the  intervals  of  his  mental  labors,  should 
raise  for  his  own  table.  Wesley  had  an  inherent  love 
of  gardening  which  he  had  never  been  in  a  position  to 

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gratify.  Wesley  was,  in  fancy,  eating  his  own  green 
peas  and  squashes  and  things  when  he  came  in  sight 
of  the  back  veranda.  It  was  vacant,  and  his  fancy 
sank  in  his  mind  like  a  plummet  of  lead.  However, 
he  approached,  and  the  breeze  of  blessing  greeted  him 
like  a  presence. 

The  parsonage  was  a  gray  old  shadow  of  a  build 
ing.  Its  walls  were  stained  with  past  rains,  the  roof 
showed  depressions,  the  veranda  steps  were  unsteady, 
in  fact  one  was  gone.  Wesley  mounted  and  seated 
himself  in  one  of  the  gnarled  old  rustic  chairs  which 
defied  weather.  From  where  he  sat  he  could  see  a 
pink  and  white  plumage  of  blossoms  over  an  orchard ; 
even  the  weedy  garden  showed  lovely  lights  under 
the  triumphant  June  sun.  Butterflies  skimmed  over 
it,  always  in  pairs,  now  and  then  a  dew-light  like  a 
jewel  gleamed  out,  and  gave  a  delectable  thrill  of  mys 
tery.  Wesley  wished  the  girl  were  there.  Then  she 
came.  He  saw  a  flutter  of  blue  in  the  garden,  then  a 
a  face  like  a  rose  overtopped  the  weeds.  The  sun 
light  glanced  from  a  dark  head,  giving  it  high-lights 
of  gold. 

The  girl  approached.  When  she  saw  the  minister, 
she  started,  but  not  as  if  with  surprise;  rather  as  if 
she  had  made  ready  to  start.  She  stood  at  the  foot 
of  the  steps,  glowing  with  blushes,  but  still  not  con 
fused.  She  smiled  with  friendly  confidence.  She 
was  very  pretty  and  she  wore  a  delicious  gown,  if  one 
were  not  a  woman,  to  observe  the  lack  of  fashion  and 
the  faded  streaks,  and  she  carried  a  little  silk  work- 
bag. 

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Wesley  rose.  He  also  blushed,  and  looked  more 
confused  than  the  girl.  "  Good  morning,  Miss 
Dodge,"  he  said.  His  hands  twitched  a  little. 

Fanny  Dodge  noted  his  confusion  quite  calmly. 
"  Are  you  busy  ?  "  said  she. 

"  You  are  laughing  at  me,  Miss  Dodge.  What  on 
earth  am  I  busy  about  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  girl.  "  Of  course  I  have  eyes,  and  I 
can  see  that  you  are  not  writing;  but  I  can't  see  your 
mind,  or  your  thoughts.  For  all  I  know,  they  may 
be  simply  grinding  out  a  sermon,  and  today  is  Satur 
day.  I  don't  want  to  break  up  the  meeting."  She 
laughed. 

"  Come  on  up  here,"  said  Wesley  with  camaraderie. 
"  You  know  I  am  not  doing  a  blessed  thing.  I  can 
finish  my  sermon  in  an  hour  after  dinner.  Come  on 
up.  The  breeze  is  heavenly.  What  have  you  got  in 
that  bag?" 

"  I,"  stated  Fanny  Dodge,  mounting  the  steps,  "  have 
my  work  in  my  bag.  I  am  embroidering  a  center 
piece  which  is  to  be  sold  for  at  least  twice  its  value  — 
for  I  can't  embroider  worth  a  cent  —  at  the  fair." 
She  sat  down  beside  him,  and  fished  out  of  the  bag  a 
square  of  white  linen  and  some  colored  silks. 

"  Mrs.  Black  has  just  told  me  about  that  fair," 
said  Wesley.  "  Say,  do  you  know,  I  loathe  the  idea  of 
it?" 

"  Why  ?  A  fair  is  no  end  of  fun.  We  always  have 
them." 

"  Beggary." 

"Nonsense!" 

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"  Yes,  it  is.  I  might  just  as  well  put  on  some  black 
glasses,  get  a  little  dog  with  a  string,  and  a  basket,  and 
done  with  it." 

The  girl  giggled.  "  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said 
she,  "  but  your  salary  has  to  be  paid,  and  folks  have  to 
be  cajoled  into  handing  out  the  money."  Suddenly 
she  looked  troubled.  "If  there  is  any  to  hand,"  she 
added. 

"  I  want  you  to  tell  me  something  and  be  quite  frank 
about  it." 

Fanny  shot  a  glance  at  him.  Her  lashes  were  long, 
and  she  could  look  through  them  with  liquid  fire  of 
dark  eyes. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  she.  She  threaded  a  needle  with  pink 
silk. 

"  Is  Brookville  a  very  poor  village  ?  " 

Fanny  inserted  her  pink-threaded  needle  into  the 
square  of  linen. 

"  What,"  she  inquired  with  gravity,  "  is  the  past 
tense  of  bust?" 

"  I  am  in  earnest." 

"  So  am  I.  But  I  know  a  minister  is  never  supposed 
to  know  about  such  a  word  as  bust,  even  if  he  is  bust 
two-thirds  of  his  life.  I'll  tell  you.  First  Brookville 
was  bust,  now  it's  busted." 

Wesley  stared  at  her. 

"  Fact,"  said  Fanny,  calmly,  starting  a  rose  on  the 
linen  in  a  career  of  bloom.  "  First,  years  ago,  when 
I  was  nothing  but  a  kid,  Andrew  Bolton  —  you  have 
heard  of  Andrew  Bolton?  " 

"  I  have  heard  him  mentioned.  I  have  never  under- 

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stood  why  everybody  was  so  down  on  him,  though  he 
is  serving  a  term  in  prison,  I  believe.  Nobody  seems 
to  like  to  explain." 

"  The  reason  for  that  is  plain  enough/'  stated  Fanny. 
"  Nobody  likes  to  admit  he's  been  made  a  fool  of. 
The  man  who  takes  the  gold  brick  always  tries  to  hide 
it  if  he  can't  blame  it  off  on  his  wife  or  sister  or  aunt. 
Andrew  Bolton  must  have  made  perfectly  awful  fools 
of  everybody  in  Brookville.  They  must  have  thought 
of  him  as  a  little  tin  god  on  wheels  till  he  wrecked  the 
bank  and  the  silk  factory,  and  ran  off  with  a  lot  of 
money  belonging  to  his  disciples,  and  got  caught  by 
the  hand  of  the  law,  and  landed  in  State's  Prison. 
That's  why  they  don't  tell.  Reckon  my  poor  father, 
if  he  were  alive,  wouldn't  tell.  I  didn't  have  anything 
to  do  with  it,  so  I  am  telling.  When  Andrew  Bolton 
embezzled  the  town  went  bust.  Now  the  war  in 
Europe,  through  the  grinding  of  wheels  which  I  can't 
comprehend,  has  bankrupted  the  street  railway  and  the 
chair  factory,  and  the  town  is  busted." 

"  But,  as  you  say,  if  there  is  no  money,  why  a  fair  ?  " 
Wesley  had  paled  a  little. 

"  Oh,"  replied  the  girl,  "  there  is  always  the  hoard 
ing  instinct  to  be  taken  into  account.  There  are  still 
a  lot  of  stockings  and  feather  beds  and  teapots 
in  Brookville.  We  still  have  faith  that  a  fair  can 
mine  a  little  gold  out  of  them  for  you.  Of  course 
we  don't  know,  but  this  is  a  Yankee  village,  and 
Yankees  never  do  spend  the  last  cent.  I  admit  you 
may  get  somebody's  funeral  expenses  out  of  the  tea 
pot." 

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"  Good  Lord !  "  groaned  Wesley. 

"  That,"  remarked  the  girl,  "  is  almost  swearing.  I 
am  surprised,  and  you  a  minister/' 

"  But  it  is  an  awful  state  of  things." 

"Well,"  said  Fanny,  "Mrs.  B.  H.  Slocum  may 
come  over  from  Grenoble.  She  used  to  live  here,  and 
has  never  lost  her  interest  in  Brookville.  She  is  rich. 
She  can  buy  a  lot,  and  she  is  very  good-natured  about 
being  cheated  for  the  gospel's  sake.  Then,  too,  Brook 
ville  has  never  lost  its  guardian  angels." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  What  I  say.  The  faith  of  the  people  here  in 
guardian  angels  is  a  wonderful  thing.  Sometimes  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  all  Brookville  considered  itself  under 
special  guardianship,  sort  of  a  hen-and-chicken  ar 
rangement,  you  know.  Anyhow,  they  do  go  ahead 
and  undertake  the  craziest  things,  and  come  out  some 
how." 

"  I  think,"  said  Wesley  Elliot  soberly,  "  that  I  ought 
to  resign." 

Then  the  girl  paled,  and  bent  closer  over  her  work. 
"  Resign !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Yes,  resign.  I  admit  I  haven't  enough  money  to 
live  without  a  salary,  though  I  would  like  to  stay  here 
forever."  Wesley  spoke  with  fervor,  his  eyes  on  the 
girl. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't." 

"  I  most  certainly  would,  but  I  can't  run  in  debt, 
and  —  I  want  to  marry  some  day  —  like  other  young 
men  —  and  I  must  earn." 

The  girl  bent  her  head  lower.  "  Why  don't  you 

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resign  and  go  away,  and  get  —  married,  if  you  want 
to?" 

"Fanny!" 

He  bent  over  her.  His  lips  touched  her  hair. 
"  You  know,"  he  began  —  then  came  a  voice  like  the 
legendary  sword  which  divides  lovers  for  their  best 
temporal  and  spiritual  good. 

"  Dinner  is  ready  and  the  peas  are  getting  cold,"  said 
Mrs.  Solomon  Black. 

Then  it  happened  that  Wesley  Elliot,  although  a  man 
and  a  clergyman,  followed  like  a  little  boy  the  large 
woman  with  the  water-waves  through  the  weedage  of 
the  pastoral  garden,  and  the  girl  sat  weeping  awhile 
from  mixed  emotions  of  anger  and  grief.  Then  she 
took  a  little  puff  from  her  bag,  powdered  her  nose, 
straightened  her  hair  and,  also,  went  home,  bag  in 
hand,  to  her  own  noon  dinner. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  CHURCH  fair  is  one  of  the  purely  feminine 
functions  which  will  be  the  last  to  disappear 
when  the  balance  between  the  sexes  is  more 
evenly  adjusted.  It  is  almost  a  pity  to  assume  that  it 
will  finally,  in  the  nature  of  things,  disappear,  for  it  is 
charming;  it  is  innocent  with  the  innocence  of  very 
good,  simple  women ;  it  is  at  the  same  time  subtle  with 
that  inimitable  subtlety  which  only  such  women  can 
achieve.  It  is  petty  finance  on  such  a  moral  height  that 
even  the  sufferers  by  its  code  must  look  up  to  it.  Be 
fore  even  woman,  showing  anything  except  a  timid 
face  of  discovery  at  the  sights  of  New  York  under 
male  escort,  invaded  Wall  Street,  the  church  fair  was 
in  full  tide,  and  the  managers  thereof  might  have  put 
financiers  to  shame  by  the  cunning,  if  not  magnitude,  of 
their  operations.  Good  Christian  women,  mothers  of 
families,  would  sell  a  tidy  of  no  use  except  to  wear  to 
a  frayed  edge  the  masculine  nerves,  and  hand-painted 
plates  of  such  bad  art  that  it  verged  on  immorality, 
for  prices  so  above  all  reason,  that  a  broker  would  have 
been  taken  aback.  And  it  was  all  for  worthy  objects, 
these  pretty  functions  graced  by  girls  and  matrons  in 
their  best  attire,  with  the  products  of  their  little  hands 
offered,  or  even  forced,  upon  the  outsider  who  was  held 
up  for  the  ticket.  They  gambled  shamelessly  to  buy  a 

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new  carpet  for  the  church.  There  was  plain  and 
brazen  raffling  for  dreadful  lamps  and  patent  rockers 
and  dolls  which  did  not  look  fit  to  be  owned  by  nice 
little  girl-mothers,  and  all  for  the  church  organ,  the 
minister's  salary  and  such  like.  Of  this  description 
was  the  church  fair  held  in  Brookville  to  raise  money  to 
pay  the  Reverend  Wesley  Elliot.  He  came  early, 
and  haunted  the  place  like  a  morbid  spirit.  He  was 
both  angry  and  shamed  that  such  means  must  be  em 
ployed  to  pay  his  just  dues,  but  since  it  had  to  be  he 
could  not  absent  himself. 

There  was  no  parlor  in  the  church,  and  not  long  after 
the  infamous  exit  of  Andrew  Bolton  the  town  hall 
had  been  destroyed  by  fire.  Therefore  all  such  func 
tions  were  held  in  a  place  which  otherwise  was  a  source 
of  sad  humiliation  to  its  owner:  Mrs.  Amos  Whittle, 
the  deacon's  wife's  unfurnished  best  parlor.  It  was  a 
very  large  room,  and  poor  Mrs.  Whittle  had  always 
dreamed  of  a  fine  tapestry  carpet,  furniture  uphol 
stered  with  plush,  a  piano,  and  lace  curtains. 

Her  dreams  had  never  been  realized.  The  old  trag 
edy  of  the  little  village  had  cropped  dreams,  like  a 
species  of  celestial  foliage,  close  to  their  roots.  Poor 
Mrs.  Whittle,  although  she  did  not  realize  it,  missed 
her  dreams  more  than  she  would  have  missed  the  fur 
niture  of  that  best  parlor,  had  she  ever  possessed  and 
lost  it.  She  had  come  to  think  of  it  as  a  room  in  one 
of  the  "  many  mansions,"  although  she  would  have 
been  horrified  had  she  known  that  she  did  so.  She  was 
one  who  kept  her  religion  and  her  daily  life  chemically 
differentiated.  She  endeavored  to  maintain  her  soul 

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on  a  high  level  of  orthodoxy,  while  her  large,  flat 
feet  trod  her  round  of  household  tasks.  It  was  only 
when  her  best  parlor,  great  empty  room,  was  in  de 
mand  for  some  social  function  like  the  church  fair,  that 
she  felt  her  old  dreams  return  and  stimulate  her  as 
with  some  wine  of  youth. 

The  room  was  very  prettily  decorated  with  blossom 
ing  boughs,  and  Japanese  lanterns,  and  set  about  with 
long  tables  covered  with  white,  which  contained  the 
articles  for  sale.  In  the  center  of  the  room  was  the 
flower-booth,  and  that  was  lovely.  It  was  a  circle 
of  green,  with  oval  openings  to  frame  young  girl- 
faces,  and  on  the  circular  shelf  were  heaped  flowers 
in  brilliant  masses.  At  seven  o'clock  the  fair  was  in 
full  swing,  as  far  as  the  wares  and  saleswomen  were 
concerned.  At  the  flower-booth  were  four  pretty 
girls :  Fanny  Dodge,  Ellen  Dix,  Joyce  Fulsom  and 
Ethel  Mixter.  Each  stood  looking  out  of  her  frame  of 
green,  and  beamed  with  happiness  in  her  own  youth 
and  beauty.  They  did  not,  could  not  share  the  anxiety 
of  the  older  women.  The  more  anxious  gathered 
about  the  cake  table.  Four  pathetically  bedizened 
middle-aged  creatures,  three  too  stout,  one  too  thin, 
put  their  heads  together  in  conference.  One  woman 
was  Mrs.  Maria  Dodge,  Fanny's  mother,  one  was 
Mrs.  Amos  Dix,  one  was  Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle,  and 
one  was  unmarried. 

She  was  the  stoutest  of  the  four,  tightly  laced  in  an 
ancient  silk,  with  frizzed  hair  standing  erect  from 
bulging  temples.  She  was  Lois  Daggett,  and  a  trag 
edy.  She  loved  the  young  minister,  Wesley  Elliot,  with 

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all  her  heart  and  soul  and  strength.  She  had  fastened, 
to  attract  his  admiration,  a  little  bunch  of  rose  gera 
nium  leaves  and  heliotrope  in  her  tightly  frizzed  hair. 
That  little  posy  had,  all  unrecognized,  a  touching 
pathos.  It  was  as  the  aigrette,  the  splendid  curves  of 
waving  plumage  which  birds  adopt  in  the  desire  for 
love.  Lois  had  never  had  a  lover.  She  had  never 
been  pretty,  or  attractive,  but  always  in  her  heart  had 
been  the  hunger  for  love.  The  young  minister  seemed 
the  ideal  of  all  the  dreams  of  her  life.  He  was  as 
a  god  to  her.  She  trembled  under  his  occasional 
glances,  his  casual  address  caused  vibrations  in  every 
nerve.  She  cherished  no  illusions.  She  knew  he  was 
not  for  her,  but  she  loved  and  worshiped,  and  she 
tucked  on  an  absurd  little  bow  of  ribbon,  and  she 
frizzed  tightly  her  thin  hair,  and  she  wore  little  posies, 
following  out  the  primitive  instinct  of  her  sex,  even 
while  her  reason  lagged  behind.  If  once  Wesley 
should  look  at  that  pitiful  little  floral  ornament,  should 
think  it  pretty,  it  would  have  meant  as  much  to  that 
starved  virgin  soul  as  a  kiss  —  to  do  her  justice,  as  a 
spiritual  kiss.  There  was  in  reality  only  pathos  and 
tragedy  in  her  adoration.  It  was  not  in  the  least 
earthy,  or  ridiculous,  but  it  needed  a  saint  to  under 
stand  that.  Even  while  she  conferred  with  her  friends, 
she  never  lost  sight  of  the  young  man,  always  hoped 
for  that  one  fleeting  glance  of  approbation. 

When  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Daggett,  appeared,  she 
restrained  her  wandering  eyes.  All  four  women  con 
ferred  anxiously.  They,  with  Mrs.  Solomon  Black, 
had  engineered  the  fair.  Mrs.  Black  had  not  yet  ap- 

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peared  and  they  all  wondered  why.  Abby  Daggett, 
who  had  the  expression  of  a  saint  —  a  fleshy  saint,  in 
old  purple  muslin  —  gazed  about  her  with  admira 
tion. 

"Don't  it  look  perfectly  lovely!"  she  exclaimed. 

Mrs.  Whittle  fairly  snapped  at  her,  like  an  angry  old 
dog.  "Lovely!"  said  she  with  a  fine  edge  of  sar 
casm  in  her  tone,  "  perfectly  lovely !  Yes  it  does. 
But  I  think  we  are  a  set  of  fools,  the  whole  of  us. 
Here  we've  got  a  fair  all  ready,  and  worked  our  fin 
gers  to  the  bone  (I  don't  know  but  I'll  have  a  felon 
on  account  of  that  drawn-in  rug  there)  and  we've  used 
up  all  our  butter  and  eggs,  and  I  don't  see,  for  one, 
who  is  going  to  buy  anything.  I  ain't  got  any  money 
t'  spend.  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Slocum  will  come  over 
from  Grenoble,  and  if  she  does,  she  can't  buy  every 
thing." 

"  Well,  what  made  us  get  up  the  fair?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Dodge. 

"  I  suppose  we  all  thought  somebody  might  have 
some  money,"  ventured  Abby  Daggett. 

"  I'd  like  to  know  who  ?  Not  one  of  us  four  has, 
and  I  don't  believe  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  has,  unless  she 
turns  in  her  egg-money,  and  if  she  does  I  don't  see 
how  she  is  going  to  feed  the  minister.  Where  is 
Phoebe  Black?" 

"  She  is  awfully  late,"  said  Lois.  She  looked  at  the 
door,  and,  so  doing,  got  a  chance  to  observe  the  min 
ister,  who  was  standing  beside  the  flower-table  talk 
ing  to  Ellen  Dix.  Fanny  Dodge  was  busily  arrang 
ing  some  flowers,  with  her  face  averted.  Ellen  Dix 

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was  very  pretty,  with  an  odd  prettiness  for  a  New 
England  girl.  Her  pale  olive  skin  was  flawless  and 
fine  of  texture.  Her  mouth  was  intensely  red,  and  her 
eyes  very  dark  and  heavily  shaded  by  long  lashes. 
She  wore  at  the  throat  of  her  white  dress  a  beautiful 
coral  brooch.  It  had  been  one  of  her  mother's  girl 
hood  treasures.  The  Dix  family  had  been  really  al 
most  opulent  once,  before  the  Andrew  Bolton  cat 
aclysm  had  involved  the  village,  and  there  were  still 
left  in  the  family  little  reminiscences  of  former  splen 
dor.  Mrs.  Dix  wore  a  superb  old  lace  scarf  over  her 
ancient  black  silk,  and  a  diamond  sparkled  at  her 
throat.  The  other  women  considered  the  lace  much 
too  old  and  yellow  to  be  worn,  but  Mrs.  Dix  was  proud 
both  of  the  lace  and  her  own  superior  sense  of  values. 
If  the  lace  had  been  admired  she  would  not  have  cared 
so  much  for  it. 

Suddenly  a  little  woman  came  hurrying  up,  her  face 
sharp  with  news.  "  What  do  you  think?  "  she  said  to 
the  others.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

They  stared  at  her.  "  What  do  you  mean,  Mrs. 
Fulsom  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Whittle  acidly. 

The  little  woman  tossed  her  head  importantly.  "  Oh, 
nothing  much,"  said  she,  "  only  I  thought  the  rest  of 
you  might  not  know.  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  has  got 
another  boarder.  That's  what's  making  her  late.  She 
had  to  get  something  for  her  to  eat." 

"Another  boarder!"  said  Mrs.  Whittle. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  woman,  "  a  young  lady,  and 
Mrs.  Solomon  Black  is  on  her  way  here  now." 

"  With  her?  "  gasped  the  others. 

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"  Yes,  she's  coming,  and  she  looks  to  me  as  if  she 
might  have  money." 

"  Who  is  she?  "  asked  Mrs.  Whittle. 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  Mrs.  Mixter's  Tommy  told  my 
Sam,  and  he  told  me,  and  I  saw  Mrs.  Black  and  the 
boarder  coming  out  of  her  yard,  when  I  went  out  of 
mine,  and  I  hurried  so's  to  get  here  first.  Hush! 
Here  they  come  now." 

While  the  women  were  conferring  many  people  had 
entered  the  room,  although  none  had  purchased  the 
wares.  Now  there  was  stark  silence  and  a  concen 
trated  fire  of  attention  as  Mrs.  Black  entered  with  a 
strange  young  woman.  Mrs.  Black  looked  doubtfully 
important.  She,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  far  from 
sure  of  her  wisdom  in  the  course  she  was  taking.  She 
was  even  a  little  pale,  and  her  lips  moved  nervously 
as  she  introduced  the  girl  to  one  and  another.  "  Miss 
Orr,"  she  said;  sometimes  "  Miss  Lydia  Orr." 

As  for  the  girl,  she  looked  timid,  yet  determined. 
She  was  pretty,  perhaps  a  beauty,  had  she  made  the 
most  of  her  personal  advantages  instead  of  appar 
ently  ignoring  them.  Her  beautiful  fair  hair,  which 
had  red-gold  lights,  should  have  shaded  her  forehead, 
which  was  too  high.  Instead  it  was  drawn  smoothly 
back,  and  fastened  in  a  mat  of  compact  flat  braids 
at  the  back  of  her  head.  She  was  dressed  very  sim 
ply,  in  black,  and  her  costume  was  not  of  the  latest 
mode. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  about  her  to  have  made  Mrs. 
Fulsom  think  she  was  rich,"  Mrs.  Whittle  whispered 
to  Mrs.  Daggett,  who  made  an  unexpectedly  shrewd 

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retort:  "I  can  see.  She  don't  look  as  if  she  cared 
what  anybody  thought  of  her  clothes ;  as  if  she  had  so 
much  she's  never  minded." 

Mrs.  Whittle  failed  to  understand.  She  grunted 
non-assent.  "  I  don't  see,"  said  she.  "  Her  sleeves 
are  way  out  of  date." 

For  awhile  there  was  a  loud  buzz  of  conversation  all 
over  the  room.  Then  it  ceased,  for  things  were  hap 
pening,  amazing  things.  The  strange  young  lady  was 
buying  and  she  was  paying  cash  down.  Some  of  the 
women  examined  the  bank  notes  suspiciously  and 
handed  them  to  their  husbands  to  verify.  The  girl 
saw,  and  flushed,  but  she  continued.  She  went  from 
table  to  table,  and  she  bought  everything,  from  quilts 
and  hideous  drawn-in  rugs  to  frosted  cakes.  She 
bought  in  the  midst  of  that  ominous  hush  of  suspi 
cion.  Once  she  even  heard  a  woman  hiss  to  another, 
"  She's  crazy.  She  got  out  of  an  insane  asylum." 

However  nobody  of  all  the  stunned  throng  refused 
to  sell.  Her  first  failure  came  in  the  case  of  a  young 
man.  He  was  Jim  Dodge,  Fanny's  brother.  Jim 
Dodge  was  a  sort  of  Ishmael  in  the  village  estimation, 
and  yet  he  was  liked.  He  was  a  handsome  young  fel 
low  with  a  wild  freedom  of  carnage.  He  had  worked 
in  the  chair  factory  to  support  his  mother  and  sister, 
before  it  closed.  He  haunted  the  woods,  and  made  a 
little  by  selling  skins.  He  had  brought  as  his  contri 
bution  to  the  fair  a  beautiful  fox  skin,  and  when  the 
young  woman  essayed  to  buy  that  he  strode  forward. 
"  That  is  not  for  sale,"  said  he.  "  I  beg  you  to  ac 
cept  that  as  a  gift,  Miss  Orr." 

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The  young  fellow  blushed  a  little  before  the  girl's 
blue  eyes,  although  he  held  himself  proudly.  "  I 
won't  have  this  sold  to  a  young  lady  who  is  buying 
as  much  as  you  are,"  he  continued. 

The  girl  hesitated.  Then  she  took  the  skin. 
"  Thank  you,  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said. 

Jim's  mother  sidled  close  to  him.  "  You  did  just 
right,  Jim/'  she  whispered.  "  I  don't  know  who  she 
is,  but  I  feel  ashamed  of  my  life.  She  can't  really  want 
all  that  truck.  She's  buying  to  help.  I  feel  as  if  we 
were  a  parcel  of  beggars." 

"  Well,  she  won't  buy  that  fox  skin  to  help !  "  Jim 
whispered  back  fiercely. 

The  whole  did  not  take  very  long.  Finally  the  girl 
talked  in  a  low  voice  to  Mrs.  Black  who  then  became 
her  spokeswoman.  Mrs.  Black  now  looked  confident, 
even  triumphant.  "  Miss  Orr  says  of  course  she  can't 
possibly  use  all  the  cake  and  pies  and  jelly,"  she  said, 
"and  she  wants  you  to  take  away  all  you  care  for. 
And  she  wants  to  know  if  Mrs.  Whittle  will  let  the 
other  things  stay  here  till  she's  got  a  place  to  put  them 
in.  I  tell  her  there's  no  room  in  my  house." 

"  I  s'pose  so,"  said  Mrs.  Whittle  in  a  thick  voice. 
She  and  many  others  looked  fairly  pale  and  shocked. 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  the  girl  and  the  minister  went 
out. 

The  hush  continued  for  a  few  seconds.  Then  Mrs. 
Whittle  spoke.  "  There's  something  wrong  about  that 
girl,"  said  she.  Other  women  echoed  her.  The  room 
seemed  full  of  feminine  snarls. 

Jim  Dodge  turned  on  them,  and  his  voice  rang  out. 

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"  You  are  a  lot  of  cats/'  said  he.  "  Come  on  home, 
mother  and  Fanny,  I  am  mortal  shamed  for  the  whole 
of  it.  That  girl's  buying  to  help,  when  she  can't  want 
the  things,  and  all  you  women  turning  on  her  for  it ! " 

After  the  Dodges  had  gone  there  was  another  hush. 
Then  it  was  broken  by  a  man's  voice,  an  old  man's 
voice  with  a  cackle  of  derision  and  shrewd  amusement 
in  it.  "  By  gosh !  "  said  this  voice,  resounding  through 
the  whole  room,  "  that  strange  young  woman  has 
bought  the  whole  church  fair !  " 

"  There's  something  wrong,"  said  Mrs.  Whittle 
again. 

"Ain't  you  got  the  money?"  queried  the  man's 
voice. 

"Yes,  but—" 

"  Then  for  God's  sake  hang  onto  it !  " 


CHAPTER  III 

AFTER  Jim  Dodge  had  taken  his  mother  and 
sister  home,  he  stole  off  by  himself  for  a  sol 
itary  walk.  The  night  was  wonderful,  and 
the  young  man,  who  was  in  a  whirl  of  undefined 
emotion,  unconsciously  felt  the  need  of  a  lesson  of 
eternal  peace.  The  advent  of  the  strange  girl,  and  her 
unprecedented  conduct  had  caused  in  him  a  sort  of 
masculine  vertigo  over  the  whole  situation.  Why  in 
the  name  of  common  sense  was  that  girl  in  Brook- 
ville,  and  why  should  she  have  done  such  a  thing?  He 
admired  her;  he  was  angry  with  her;  he  was  puzzled 
by  her. 

He  did  not  like  the  minister.  He  did  not  wonder 
that  Elliot  should  wish  for  emolument  enough  to  pay 
his  way,  but  he  had  a  little  contempt  for  him,  for  his 
assumption  of  such  superior  wisdom  that  he  could  teach 
his  fellow  men  spiritual  knowledge  and  claim  from 
them  financial  reward.  Aside  from  keeping  those  he 
loved  in  comfort,  Jim  had  no  wish  for  money.  He 
had  all  the  beauty  of  nature  for  the  taking.  He  lis 
tened,  as  he  strolled  along,  to  the  mysterious  high  notes 
of  insects  and  night-birds;  he  saw  the  lovely  shadows 
of  the  trees,  and  he  honestly  wondered  within  himself 
why  Brookville  people  considered  themselves  so 
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wronged  by  an  occurrence  of  years  ago,  for  which  the 
perpetrator  had  paid  so  dearly.  At  the  same  time  he 
experienced  a  sense  of  angry  humiliation  at  the  poverty 
of  the  place  which  had  caused  such  an  occurrence  as 
that  church  fair. 

When  he  reached  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  house,  he 
stared  up  at  its  glossy  whiteness,  reflecting  the  moon 
light  like  something  infinitely  more  precious  than  paint, 
and  he  seemed  to  perceive  again  a  delicate,  elusive 
fragrance  which  he  had  noticed  about  the  girl's  raiment 
when  she  thanked  him  for  his  fox  skin. 

"  She  smelled  like  a  new  kind  of  flower,"  Jim  told 
himself  as  he  swung  down  the  road.  The  expression 
was  not  elegant,  but  it  was  sincere.  He  thought  of  the 
girl  as  he  might  have  thought  of  an  entirely  new  spe 
cies  of  blossom,  with  a  strictly  individual  fragrance 
which  he  had  encountered  in  an  expedition  afield. 

After  he  had  left  the  Black  house,  there  was  only  a 
half  mile  before  he  reached  the  old  Andrew  Bolton 
place.  The  house  had  been  very  pretentious  in  an  ugly 
architectural  period.  There  were  truncated  towers,  a 
mansard  roof,  hideous  dormers,  and  a  reckless  outbreak 
of  perfectly  useless  bay  windows.  The  house,  which 
was  large,  stood  aloof  from  the  road,  with  a  small  plan 
tation  of  evergreen  trees  before  it.  It  had  not  been 
painted  for  years,  and  loomed  up  like  the  vaguest 
shadow  of  a  dwelling  even  in  the  brilliant  moonlight. 
Suddenly  Jim  caught  sight  of  a  tiny  swinging  gleam  of 
light.  It  bobbed  along  at  the  height  of  a  man's  knee. 
It  was  a  lantern,  which  seemed  rather  an  odd  article  to 
be  used  on  such  a  night.  Then  Jim  came  face  to  face 

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with  the  man  who  carried  the  lantern,  and  saw  who  he 
was  —  Deacon  Amos  Whittle.  To  Jim's  mind,  the 
man  resembled  a  fox,  skulking  along  the  road,  although 
Deacon  Amos  Whittle  was  not  predatory.  He  was  a 
small,  thin,  wiry  man  with  a  queer  swirl  of  white  whis 
ker,  and  hopping  gait. 

He  seemed  somewhat  blinded  by  his  lantern,  for  he 
ran  full  tilt  into  Jim,  who  stood  the  shock  with  such 
firmness  that  the  older  man  staggered  back,  and  danced 
uncertainly  to  recover  his  balance.  Deacon  Amos 
Whittle  stuttered  uncertain  remarks,  as  was  his  wont 
when  startled.  "  It  is  only  Jim  Dodge,"  said  Jim. 
"  Guess  your  lantern  sort  of  blinded  you,  Deacon." 

Then  the  lantern  almost  blinded  Jim,  for  Whittle 
swung  it  higher  until  it  came  on  a  level  with  Jim's  eyes. 
Over  it  peered  Whittle's  little  keen  ones,  spectacled  un 
der  a  gray  shag  of  eyebrows.  "  Oh  it  is  you !  "  said 
the  man  with  a  somewhat  contemptuous  accent.  He 
held  Jim  in  slight  esteem. 

Jim  laughed  lightly.  Unless  he  cared  for  people, 
their  opinion  of  him  always  seemed  a  perfectly  neg 
ligible  matter,  and  he  did  not  care  at  all  for  Amos 
Whittle. 

Suddenly,  to  his  amazement,  Amos  took  hold  of  his 
coat.  "  Look  a'  here,  Jim,"  said  he. 

"Well?" 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  that  strange  woman 
that's  boardin'  to  Mis'  Solomon  Black's  ?  " 

"  How  in  creation  should  I  know  anything  about 
her?" 

"  Hev  you  seen  her  ?  " 

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"  I  saw  her  at  the  fair  tonight." 

"  The  fair  at  my  house?  " 

"  Don't  know  of  any  other  fair/' 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  her?  " 

"  Don't  think  of  her." 

Jim  tried  to  pass,  but  the  old  man  danced  before  him 
with  his  swinging  lantern. 

"  I  must  be  going  along,"  said  Jim. 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Do  you  know  she  bought  the 
whole  fair?" 

"  Yes,  I  do.  You  are  blinding  me  with  that  lantern, 
Deacon  Whittle." 

"  And  she  paid  good  money  down.     I  seen  it." 

"  All  right.     I've  got  to  get  past  you." 

"  Wait  a  minute.  Do  you  s'pose  that  young  woman 
is  all  right?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  not.  Nothing  against  the  law  of 
the  land  for  her  to  buy  out  a  church  fair,  that  I  know 
of." 

"  Don't  you  think  it  looks  sort  of  suspicious  ?  " 

"  It's  none  of  my  business.  I  confess  I  don't  see  why 
it's  suspicious,  unless  somebody  wants  to  make  her  out 
a  fool.  I  don't  understand  what  any  sane  person  wants 
with  all  that  truck;  but  I  don't  pretend  to  understand 


women." 


Whittle  shook  his  head  slowly.     "  I  dunno,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  who  does,  or  cares  either. 
They've  got  the  money.  I  suppose  that  was  what  they 
were  after."  Jim  again  tried  to  pass. 

"  Wait  just  a  minute.  Say,  Jim,  I'm  going  to  tell 
you  something.  Don't  you  speak  of  it  till  it  gets  out." 

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"  Fire  away.     I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"  She  wants  to  buy  this  old  Bolton  place  here." 

Jim  whistled. 

"  You  know  the  assignees  of  the  Bolton  estate  had  to 
take  the  house,  and  it's  been  running  down  all  these 
years,  and  a  lot  of  money  has  got  to  be  spent  on  it  or 
it'll  tumble  down.  Now,  this  young  woman  has  offered 
to  pay  a  good  round  sum  for  it,  and  take  it  just  as  it  is. 
S'pose  it's  all  right?" 

"  How  in  creation  should  I  know?  If  I  held  it,  and 
wanted  to  sell  it,  I'd  know  darn  well  whether  it  was 
all  right  or  not.  I  wouldn't  go  around  asking  other 
folks." 

"  But  you  see  it  don't  seem  natural.  Folks  don't  do 
things  like  that.  She's  offering  to  pay  more  than  the 
place  is  worth.  She'll  have  to  spend  thousands  on  it 
to  make  it  fit  to  live  in.  She  says  she'll  pay  cash,  too." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  you'll  know  cash  when  you  see  it. 
I've  got  to  go." 

"  But  cash !  Lord  A'mighty !  We  dunno  what  to 
do." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  whether  you  want  to  sell  or 
not." 

"Want  to  sell!  If  we  didn't  want  to  sell  this  old 
shebang  we'd  be  dumb  idiots." 

"  Then,  why  in  the  name  of  common  sense  don't 
you  sell?" 

"  Because,  somehow  it  don't  look  natural  to  me." 

"  Well,  I  must  confess  that  to  throw  away  much 
money  on  an  old  shell  like  that  doesn't  look  any  too 
natural  to  me." 

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"  Come  now,  Jim,  that  was  a  real  nice  house  when 
it  was  built." 

Jim  laughed  sarcastically.  "  Running  up  your 
wares  now,  are  you  ?  " 

"  That  house  cost  Andrew  Bolton  a  pile  of  money. 
And  now,  if  it's  fixed  up,  it'll  be  the  best  house  in 
Brookville." 

"  That  isn't  saying  much.  See  here,  you've  got  to 
let  me  pass.  If  you  want  to  sell  —  I  should  think  you 
would  —  I  don't  see  what  you  are  worrying  about. 
I  don't  suppose  you  are  worrying  for  fear  you  may 
cheat  the  girl." 

"  We  ain't  goin'  to  cheat  the  girl,  but  —  I  dunno." 
Whittle  stood  aside,  shaking  his  head,  and  Jim  passed 
on.  He  loitered  along  the  shaggy  hedge  which  bor 
dered  the  old  Bolton  estate,  and  a  little  farther,  then 
turned  back.  He  had  reached  the  house  again  when 
he  started.  In  front  of  the  gate  stood  a  shadowy 
figure,  a  woman,  by  the  outlines  of  the  dress.  Jim 
continued  hesitatingly.  He  feared  to  startle  her. 
But  he  did  not.  When  he  came  abreast  of  her,  she 
turned  and  looked  full  in  his  face,  and  he  recognized 
Miss  Orr.  He  took  off  his  hat,  but  was  so  astonished 
he  could  scarcely  utter  a  greeting.  The  girl  was  so  shy 
that  she  stammered  a  little,  but  she  laughed  too,  like 
a  child  caught  in  some  mischief. 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  it  is  you !  "  she  said. 

"  Well,  taking  all  things  into  consideration,  so  am 
I,"  said  Jim. 

"You  mean—?" 

"  I  mean  it  is  pretty  late  for  you  to  be  out  alone, 

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and  I'm  as  good  as  a  Sunday  School  picnic,  with  the 
superintendent  and  the  minister  thrown  in,  for  you  to 
meet.  I'll  see  you  home." 

"  Goodness !  There's  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  in  this 
little  place,"  said  the  girl.  "I  have  lived  in  New 
York." 

"  Where  there  are  policemen." 

"  Oh,  yes,  but  one  never  counts  on  that.  One  never 
counts  on  anything  in  New  York.  You  can't,  you 
know.  Its  mathematics  are  as  high  as  its  buildings, 
too  high  to  take  chances.  But  here  —  why,  I  saw 
pretty  near  the  whole  village  at  that  funny  fair,  didn't 
I?" 

"  Well,  yes,  but  Brookville  is  not  a  walled  town. 
People  not  so  desirable  as  those  you  saw  at  the  fair 
have  free  entrance  and  egress.  It  is  pretty  late." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid,"  said  the  girl. 

"  You  have  no  reason  to  be,  now." 

"You  mean  because  you  have  happened  along. 
Well,  I  am  glad  you  did.  I  begun  to  think  it  was 
rather  late  myself  for  me  to  be  prowling  around,  but 
you  will  simply  have  to  leave  me  before  I  get  to  my 
boarding  house.  That  Mrs.  Black  is  as  kind  as  can 
be,  but  she  doesn't  know  what  to  make  of  me,  and  on 
the  whole  I  think  I  would  rather  take  my  chances 
stealing  in  alone  than  to  have  her  spy  you." 

"  If  you  wanted  to  come  out,  why  didn't  you  ask 
the  minister  to  come  with  you  ?  "  Jim  asked  bluntly. 

"  The  minister !  Oh,  I  don't  like  ministers  when 
they  are  young.  They  are  much  better  when  all  the 
doctrines  they  have  learned  at  their  theological  semi- 


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naries  have  settled  in  their  minds,  and  have  stopped 
bubbling.  However,  this  minister  here  seems  rather 
nice,  very  young,  but  he  doesn't  give  the  impression  of 
taking  himself  so  seriously  that  he  is  a  nervous  wreck 
on  account  of  his  convictions.  I  wouldn't  have  asked 
him  for  the  world.  In  the  first  place,  Mrs.  Black 
would  have  thought  it  very  queer,  and  in  the  second 
place  he  was  so  hopping  mad  about  that  fair,  and  hav 
ing  me  buy  it,  that  he  wouldn't  have  been  agreeable.  I 
don't  blame  him.  I  would  feel  just  so  in  his  place. 
It  must  be  frightful  to  be  a  poor  minister." 

"  None  too  pleasant,  anyway." 

"  You  are  right,  it  certainly  is  not.  I  have  been 
poor  myself,  and  I  know.  I  went  to  my  room,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window,  and  it  was  so  perfectly 
beautiful  outdoors,  and  I  did  want  to  see  how  this 
place  looked  by  moonlight,  so  I  just  went  down  the 
back  stairs  and  came  alone.  I  hope  nobody  will  break 
in  while  I  am  gone.  I  left  the  door  unlocked." 

"  No  burglars  live  in  Brookville,"  said  Jim. 
"  Mighty  good  reasons  for  none  to  come  in,  too." 

"What  reasons?" 

"Not  a  blessed  thing  to  burgle.  Never  has  been 
for  years." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  girl  spoke  in  a  hushed 
voice.  "I  —  understand,"  said  she,  "  that  the  peo 
ple  here  hold  the  man  who  used  to  live  in  this  house 
responsible  for  that." 

"  Why,  yes,  I  suppose  he  was.  Brookville  never 
would  have  been  a  Tuxedo  under  any  circumstances, 
but  I  reckon  it  would  have  fared  a  little  better  if  Mr. 

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Bolton  hadn't  failed  to  see  the  difference  between 
mine  and  thine.  I  was  nothing  but  a  kid,  but  I  have 
heard  a  good  deal  about  it.  Some  of  the  older  people 
are  pretty  bitter,  and  some  of  the  younger  ones  have 
it  in  their  veins.  I  suppose  the  poor  man  did  start 
us  down  hill." 

"  You  say  '  poor  man  ' ;  why?  "  asked  the  girl  and 
her  voice  trembled. 

"  Lord,  yes.  I'm  like  a  hound  sneaking  round 
back  doors  for  bones,  on  account  of  Mr.  Bolton,  my 
self.  My  father  lost  more  than  'most  anybody,  but 
I  wouldn't  change  places  with  the  man.  Say,  do  you 
know  he  has  been  in  State's  Prison  for  years  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Of  course  any  man  who  does  wrong  is  a  poor 
man,  even  if  he  doesn't  get  caught.  I'm  mighty  glad 
I  wasn't  born  bitter  as  some  of  the  people  here  were. 
My  sister  Fanny  isn't  either.  She  doesn't  have  much, 
poor  girl,  but  I've  never  heard  her  say  one  word,  and 
mother  never  blames  it  on  Mr.  Bolton,  either.  Mother 
says  he  is  getting  his  punishment,  and  it  isn't  for  any 
of  us  to  add  to  it." 

"  Your  sister  was  that  pretty  girl  at  the  flower 
table?" 

"  Yes  —  I  suppose  you  would  call  her  pretty.  I 
don't  really  know.  A  fellow  never  does  know,  when 
the  girl  is  his  sister.  She  may  look  the  best  of  the 
bunch  to  him,  but  he's  never  sure." 

"  She  is  lovely,"  said  Lydia  Orr.  She  pointed  to 
the  shadowy  house.  "  That  must  have  been  a  nice 
place  once." 

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"  Best  in  the  village ;  show  place.  Say,  what  in 
the  name  of  common  sense  do  you  want  to  buy  it 
for?" 

"Who  told  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  met  old  Whittle  just  before  I  met  you.  He 
told  me.  The  place  must  be  terribly  run  down.  It 
will  cost  a  mint  of  money  to  get  it  in  shape.'' 

"  I  have  considerable  money,"  stated  the  girl  quite 
simply. 

"  Well,  it's  none  of  my  business,  but  you  will  have  to 
sink  considerable  in  that  place,  and  perhaps  when  you 
are  through  it  won't  be  satisfactory." 

"  I  have  taken  a  notion  to  it,"  said  the  girl.  She 
spoke  very  shyly.  Her  curiously  timid,  almost  apolo 
getic  manner  returned  suddenly.  "  I  suppose  it  does 
look  strange,"  she  added. 

"  Nobody's  business  how  it  looks,"  said  Jim,  "  but 
I  think  you  ought  to  know  the  truth  about  it,  and  I 
think  I  am  more  likely  to  give  you  information  than 
Whittle.  Of  course  he  has  an  ax  to  grind.  Perhaps 
if  I  had  an  ax  to  grind,  you  couldn't  trust  me." 

"  Yes,  I  could,"  returned  the  girl  with  conviction. 
"  I  knew  that  the  minute  I  looked  at  you.  I  always 
know  the  people  I  can  trust.  I  know  I  could  not  trust 
Deacon  Whittle.  I  made  allowances,  the  way  one  does 
for  a  clock  that  runs  too  fast  or  too  slow.  I  think 
one  always  has  to  be  doing  addition  or  subtraction 
with  people,  to  understand  them." 

"  Well,  you  had  better  try  a  little  subtraction  with 


me." 


I  don't  have  to.     I  didn't  mean  with  everybody. 
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Of  course  there  are  exceptions.     That  was  a  beautiful 
skin  you  gave  me.     I  didn't  half  thank  you." 

"  Nonsense.     I  was  glad  to  give  it." 

"  Do  you  hunt  much  ?  " 

"  About  all  I  am  good  for  except  to  run  our  little 
farm  and  do  odd  jobs.  I  used  to  work  in  the  chair 
factory." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  have  liked  that." 

"Didn't;  had  to  do  what  I  could." 

"What  would  you  like  to  do?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  never  had  any  choice,  so  I 
never  gave  it  any  thought.  Something  that  would 
keep  me  out  of  doors,  I  reckon." 

"  Do  you  know  much  about  plants  and  trees  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  know  much ;  I  love  them, 
that's  all." 

"You  could  do  some  landscape  gardening  for  a 
place  like  this,  I  should  think." 

Jim  stared  at  her,  and  drew  himself  up  haughtily. 
"  It  really  is  late,  Miss  Orr,"  he  said.  "  I  think,  if 
you  will  allow  me,  I  will  take  you  home." 

"  What  are  you  angry  about  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  angry." 

"  Yes,  you  are.  You  are  angry  because  I  said  that 
about  landscape  gardening." 

"  I  am  not  a  beggar  or  a  man  who  undertakes  a  job 
he  is  not  competent  to  perform,  if  I  am  poor." 

"  Will  you  undertake  setting  those  grounds  to  rights, 
if  I  buy  the  place?" 

"  Why  don't  you  hire  a  regular  landscape  man  if  you 
have  so  much  money?  "  asked  Jim  rudely. 

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"  I  would  rather  have  you.  I  want  somebody  I  can 
work  with.  I  have  my  own  ideas.  I  want  to  hire  you 
to  work  with  me.  Will  you?  " 

"  Time  enough  to  settle  that  when  you've  bought 
the  place.  You  must  go  home  now.  Here,  take  my 
arm.  This  sidewalk  is  an  apology  for  one." 

Lydia  took  the  young  man's  arm  obediently,  and  they 
began  walking. 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  that 
truck  you  bought  ?  "  asked  Jim. 

Lydia  laughed.  "  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't 
the  slightest  idea,"  said  she.  "  Pretty  awful,  most 
of  it,  isn't  it?" 

"  I  wouldn't  give  it  house  room." 

"  I  won't  either.     I  bought  it,  but  I  won't  have  it." 

"  You  must  take  us  for  a  pretty  set  of  paupers, 
to  throw  away  money  like  that." 

"  Now,  don't  you  get  mad  again.  I  did  want  to 
buy  it.  I  never  wanted  to  buy  things  so  much  in  my 
life." 

"  I  never  saw  such  a  queer  girl." 

"  You  will  know  I  am  not  queer  some  time,  and  I 
would  tell  you  why  now,  but — " 

"  Don't  you  tell  me  a  thing  you  don't  want  to." 

"  I  think  I  had  better  wait  just  a  little.  But  I  don't 
know  about  all  those  things." 

"  Say,  why  don't  you  send  them  to  missionaries  out 
West?" 

"Oh,  could  I?" 

"  Of  course  you  can.     What's  to  hinder?  " 

"  When  I  buy  that  place  will  you  help  me?  " 

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"Of  course  I  will.  Now  you  are  talking!  I'm 
glad  to  do  anything  like  that.  I  think  I'd  be  nutty  if 
I  had  to  live  in  the  same  house  as  that  fair." 

The  girl  burst  into  a  lovely  peal  of  laughter.  "  Ex 
actly  what  I  thought  all  the  time,"  said  she.  "I 
wanted  to  buy  them ;  you  don't  know  how  much ;  but  it 
was  like  buying  rabbits,  and  white  elephants,  and  — 
oh,  I  don't  know!  a  perfect  menagerie  of  things  I 
couldn't  bear  to  live  with,  and  I  didn't  see  how  I  could 
give  them  away,  and  I  couldn't  think  of  a  place  to 
throw  them  away."  She  laughed  again. 

Jim  stopped  suddenly.     "  Say." 

"What?" 

"  Why,  it  will  be  an  awful  piece  of  work  to  pack  off 
all  those  contraptions,  and  it  strikes  me  it  is  pretty 
hard  on  the  missionaries.  There's  a  gravel  pit  down 
back  of  the  Bolton  place,  and  if  you  buy  it  — " 

"What?" 

"  Well,  bury  the  fair  there." 

Lydia  stopped  short,  and  laughed  till  she  cried. 
"You  don't  suppose  they  would  ever  find  out?" 

"  Trust  me.  You  just  have  the  whole  lot  moved 
into  the  house,  and  we'll  fix  it  up." 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  thankful  I  am  to  you," 
said  Lydia  fervently.  "  I  felt  like  a  nightmare  with 
all  those  things.  Some  of  them  can  be  used  of  course, 
but  some  —  oh,  those  picture  throws,  and  those  post 
age  stamp  plates ! " 

"  They  are  funny,  but  sort  of  pitiful,  too,"  said  Jim. 
"  Women  are  sort  of  pitiful,  lots  of  them.  I'm  glad 
I  am  a  man." 

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"  I  should  think  you  would  be,"  said  the  girl.  She 
looked  up  in  his  face  with  an  expression  which  he 
did  not  see.  He  was  regarding  women  in  the  ab 
stract;  she  was  suddenly  regarding  men  in  the  in 
dividual. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ELLIOT  slept  later  than  usual  the  morning  after 
the  fair.  Generally  he  slept  the  beautiful,  un 
disturbed  sleep  of  the  young  and  healthy;  that 
night,  for  some  reason,  he  did  not.  Possibly  the 
strange  break  which  the  buying  of  the  fair  had  made 
in  the  course  of  his  everyday  life  caused  one  also  be 
tween  his  conscious  and  unconscious  state,  which  his 
brain  refused  to  bridge  readily.  Wesley  had  not  been 
brought  face  to  face,  many  times  in  his  life,  with  the 
unprecedented.  He  had  been  brought  before  it,  al 
though  in  a  limited  fashion,  at  the  church  fair.  The 
unprecedented  is  more  or  less  shattering,  partaking  of 
the  nature  of  a  spiritual  bomb.  Lydia  Orr's  mad  pur 
chase  of  that  collection  of  things  called  a  fair  disturbed 
his  sense  of  values.  He  asked  himself  over  and  over 
who  was  this  girl?  More  earnestly  he  asked  himself 
what  her  motives  could  be. 

But  the  question  which  most  agitated  him  was  his 
relations  with  the  girl,  Fanny  Dodge.  He  realized 
that  recently  he  had  approached  the  verge  of  an 
emotional  crisis.  If  Mrs.  Black  whom  he  had  at  the 
time  fairly  cursed  in  his  heart,  in  spite  of  his  profes 
sion,  had  not  appeared  with  her  notice  of  dinner,  he 
would  be  in  a  most  unpleasant  predicament.  Only 
the  girl's  innate  good  sense  could  have  served  as  a 
refuge,  and  he  reflected  with  the  utmost  tenderness 

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that  he  might  confidently  rely  upon  that.  He  was  al 
most  sure  that  the  poor  girl  loved  him.  He  was  quite 
sure  that  he  loved  her.  But  he  was  also  sure,  with  a 
strong  sense  of  pride  in  her,  that  she  would  have  re 
fused  him,  not  on  mercenary  grounds,  for  Fanny  he 
knew  would  have  shared  a  crust  and  hovel  with  the 
man  she  loved;  but  Fanny  would  love  the  man  too 
well  to  consent  to  the  crust  and  the  hovel,  on  his  own 
account.  She  would  not  have  said  in  so  many  words, 
"  What !  marry  you,  a  minister  so  poor  that  a  begging 
fair  has  to  be  held  to  pay  his  salary?"  She  would 
have  not  refused  him  her  love  and  sympathy,  but  she 
would  have  let  him  down  so  gently  from  the  high  pros 
pect  of  matrimony  that  he  would  have  suffered  no 
jolt. 

Elliot  was  a  good  fellow.  It  was  on  the  girl's  ac 
count  that  he  suffered.  He  suffered,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  He  wanted  Fanny  badly,  but  he  realized  him 
self  something  of  a  cad.  He  discounted  his  own  suf 
fering;  perhaps,  as  he  told  himself  with  sudden  sus 
picion  of  self-conceit,  he  overestimated  hers.  Still, 
he  was  sure  that  the  girl  would  suffer  more  than  he 
wished.  He  blamed  himself  immeasurably.  He  tried 
to  construct  air  castles  which  would  not  fall,  even  be 
fore  the  impact  of  his  own  thoughts,  in  which  he 
could  marry  this  girl  and  live  with  her  happily  ever 
after,  but  the  man  had  too  much  common  sense.  He 
did  not  for  a  moment  now  consider  the  possibility  of 
stepping,  without  influence,  into  a  fat  pastorate.  He 
was  sure  that  he  could  count  confidently  upon  noth 
ing  better  than  this. 

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The  next  morning  he  looked  about  his  room  wearily, 
and  a  plan  which  he  had  often  considered  grew  upon 
him.  He  got  the  keys  of  the  unoccupied  parsonage 
next  door,  from  Mrs.  Black,  and  went  over  the  house 
after  breakfast.  It  was  rather  a  spacious  house,  old, 
but  in  tolerable  preservation.  There  was  a  south 
east  room  of  one  story  in  height,  obviously  an  archi 
tectural  afterthought,  which  immediately  appealed  to 
him.  It  was  practically  empty  except  for  charming 
possibilities,  but  it  contained  a  few  essentials,  and 
probably  the  former  incumbent  had  used  it  as  a  study. 
There  was  a  wood  stove,  a  standing  desk  fixed  to  the 
wall,  some  shelves,  an  old  table,  and  a  couple  of  arm 
chairs.  Wesley  at  once  resolved  to  carry  out  his  plan. 
He  would  move  his  small  store  of  books  from  his 
bedroom  at  Mrs.  Black's,  arrange  them  on  the  shelves, 
and  set  up  his  study  there.  He  was  reasonably  sure 
of  obtaining  wood  enough  for  a  fire  to  heat  the  room 
when  the  weather  was  cold. 

He  returned  and  told  Mrs.  Black,  who  agreed  with 
him  that  the  plan  was  a  good  one.  "  A  minister  ought 
to  have  his  study,"  said  she,  "  and  of  course  the  par 
sonage  is  at  your  disposal.  The  parish  can't  rent  it. 
That  room  used  to  be  the  study,  and  you  will  have 
offers  of  all  the  wood  you  want  to  heat  it.  There's 
plenty  of  cut  wood  that  folks  are  glad  to  donate. 
They've  always  sent  loads  of  wood  to  heat  the  minis 
ter's  study.  Maybe  they  thought  they'd  stand  less 
chance  of  hell  fire  if  they  heated  up  the  gospel  in  this 
life." 

"  Then  I'll  move  my  books  and  writing  materials 
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right  over  there,"  said  Elliot  with  a  most  boyish  glee. 

Mrs.  Black  nodded  approvingly.  "  So  I  would." 
She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  she  spoke  again.  "  I 
was  just  a  little  bit  doubtful  about  taking  that  young 
woman  in  yesterday,"  said  she. 

Elliot  regarded  her  curiously.  "  Then  you  never 
had  met  her  before?  " 

"  No,  she  just  landed  here  with  her  trunk.  The 
garage  man  brought  her,  and  she  said  he  told  her  I 
took  boarders,  and  she  asked  me  to  take  her.  I  don't 
know  but  I  was  kind  of  weak  to  give  in,  but  the  poor 
little  thing  looked  sort  of  nice,  and  her  manners 
were  pretty,  so  I  took  her.  I  thought  I  would  ask 
you  how  you  felt  about  it  this  morning,  but  there  ain't 
any  reason  to,  perhaps,  for  she  ain't  going  to  stay  here 
very  long,  anyway.  She  says  she's  going  to  buy  the 
old  Bolton  place  and  have  it  fixed  up  and  settle  down 
there  as  soon  as  she  can.  She  told  me  after  you  had 
gone  out.  She's  gone  now  to  look  at  it.  Mr.  Whittle 
was  going  to  meet  her  there.  Queer,  ain't  it?  " 

"  It  does  look  extraordinary,  rather,"  agreed  Elliot, 
"  but  Miss  Orr  may  be  older  than  she  looks." 

"  Oh,  she  ain't  old,  but  she's  of  age.  She  told  me 
that,  and  I  guess  she's  got  plenty  of  money." 

"Well,"  said  Elliot,  "that  is  rather  a  fine  old 
place.  She  may  be  connected  with  the  Bolton  fam- 
ily." 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  think,  and  if  she  was  she 
wouldn't  mention  it,  of  course.  I  think  she's  getting 
the  house  in  some  sort  of  a  business  way.  Andrew 
Bolton  may  have  died  in  prison  by  this  time,  and  she 

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may  be  an  heir.  I  think  she  is  going  to  be  married 
and  have  the  house  fixed  up  to  live  in." 

"  That  sounds  very  probable." 

"  Yes,  it  does ;  but  what  gets  me  is  her  buying  that 
fair.  I  own  I  felt  a  little  scared,  and  wondered  if 
she  had  all  her  buttons,  but  when  she  told  me  about 
the  house  I  knew  of  course  she  could  use  the  things 
for  furnishing,  all  except  the  cake  and  candy,  and  I 
suppose  if  she's  got  a  lot  of  money  she  thought  she'd 
like  to  buy  to  help.  I  feel  glad  she's  coming.  She 
may  be  a  real  help  in  the  church.  Now  don't  color 
up.  Ministers  have  to  take  help.  It's  part  of  their 
discipline." 

Sometimes  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  said  a  wise  and 
consoling  thing.  Elliot,  moving  his  effects  to  the  old 
parsonage,  considered  that  she  had  done  so  then. 
"  She  is  right.  I  have  no  business  to  be  proud  in  the 
profession  calling  for  the  lowly-hearted  of  the  whole 
world,"  he  told  himself. 

After  he  had  his  books  arranged  he  sat  down  in  an 
armchair  beside  a  front  window,  and  felt  rather  happy 
and  at  home.  He  reproached  himself  for  his  content 
when  he  read  the  morning  paper,  and  considered  the 
horrors  going  on  in  Europe.  Why  should  he,  an  able- 
bodied  man,  sit  securely  in  a  room  and  gaze  out  at  a 
peaceful  village  street?  he  asked  himself  as  he  had 
scores  of  times  before.  Then  the  imperial  individual, 
which  obtrudes  even  when  conscience  cries  out  against 
it,  occupied  his  mind.  Pretty  Fanny  Dodge  in  her 
blue  linen  was  passing.  She  never  once  glanced  at 
the  parsonage.  Forgetting  his  own  scruples  and  re- 

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solves,  he  thought  unreasonably  that  she  might  at 
least  glance  up,  if  she  had  the  day  before  at  all  in 
her  mind.  Suddenly  the  unwelcome  reflection  that  he 
might  not  be  as  desirable  as  he  had  thought  himself 
came  over  him. 

He  got  up,  put  on  his  hat,  and  walked  rapidly  in 
the  direction  of  the  old  Bolton  house.  Satisfying  his 
curiosity  might  serve  as  a  palliative  to  his  sudden  de 
pression  with  regard  to  his  love  affair.  It  is  very 
much  more  comfortable  to  consider  oneself  a  cad,  and 
acknowledge  to  oneself  love  for  a  girl,  and  be  sure  of 
her  unfortunate  love  for  you,  than  to  consider  oneself 
the  dupe  of  the  girl.  Fanny  had  a  keen  sense  of  hu 
mor.  Suppose  she  had  been  making  fun  of  him. 
Suppose  she  had  her  own  aspirations  in  other  quarters. 
He  walked  on  until  he  reached  the  old  Bolton  house. 
The  door  stood  open,  askew  upon  rusty  hinges. 
Wesley  Elliot  entered  and  glanced  about  him  with 
growing  curiosity.  The  room  was  obviously  a  kitchen, 
one  side  being  occupied  by  a  huge  brick  chimney 
inclosing  a  built-in  range  half  devoured  with  rust; 
wall  cupboards,  a  sink  and  a  decrepit  table  showed 
gray  and  ugly  in  the  greenish  light  of  two  tall  win 
dows,  completely  blocked  on  the  outside  with  over 
grown  shrubs.  An  indescribable  odor  of  decaying 
plaster,  chimney-soot  and  mildew  hung  in  the  heavy 
air. 

A  door  to  the  right,  also  half  open,  led  the  investi 
gator  further.  Here  the  floor  shook  ominously  under 
foot,  suggesting  rotten  beams  and  unsteady  sills.  The 
minister  walked  cautiously,  noting  in  passing  a  portrait 

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defaced  with  cobwebs  over  the  marble  mantelpiece 
and  the  great  circular  window  opening  upon  an  ex 
panse  of  tangled  grass  and  weeds,  through  which  the 
sun  streamed  hot  and  yellow.  Voices  came  from  an 
adjoining  room ;  he  could  hear  Deacon  Whittle's  nasal 
tones  upraised  in  fervid  assertion. 

"  Yes,  ma'am !  "  he  was  saying,  "  this  house  is  a  lit 
tle  out  of  repair,  you  can  see  that  fer  yourself;  but 
it's  well  built ;  couldn't  be  better.  A  few  hundred  dol 
lars  expended  here  an'  there'll  make  it  as  good  as 
new;  in  fact,  I'll  say  better'n  new!  They  don't  put 
no  such  material  in  houses  nowadays.  Why,  this 
woodwork  —  doors,  windows,  floors  and  all  —  is 
clear,  white  pine.  You  can't  buy  it  today  for  no  price. 
Costs  as  much  as  m'hogany,  come  to  figure  it  out.  Yes, 
ma'am!  the  woodwork  alone  in  this  house  is  worth 
the  price  of  one  of  them  little  new  shacks  a  builder'll 
run  up  in  a  couple  of  months.  And  look  at  them  man 
telpieces,  pure  tombstone  marble;  and  all  carved  like 
you  see.  Yes,  ma'am !  there's  as  many  as  seven  of  'em 
in  the  house.  Where'll  you  find  anything  like  that, 
I'd  like  to  know!" 

"I  —  think  the  house  might  be  made  to  look  very 
pleasant,  Mr.  Whittle,"  Lydia  replied,  in  a  hesitating 
voice. 

Wesley  Elliot  fancied  he  could  detect  a  slight  tremor 
in  its  even  flow.  He  pushed  open  the  door  and  walked 
boldly  in. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Orr,"  he  exclaimed,  advanc 
ing  with  outstretched  hand.  "  Good-morning,  Dea 
con !  ...  Well,  well !  what  a  melancholy  old  ruin  this 

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is,  to  be  sure.  I  never  chanced  to  see  the  interior  be 
fore." 

Deacon  Whittle  regarded  his  pastor  sourly  from  un 
der  puckered  brows. 

"  Some  s'prised  to  see  you,  dominie/'  said  he. 
"  Thought  you  was  generally  occupied  at  your  desk  of 
a  Friday  morning." 

The  minister  included  Lydia  Orr  in  the  genial 
warmth  of  his  smile  as  he  replied : 

"  I  had  a  special  call  into  the  country  this  morn 
ing,  and  seeing  your  conveyance  hitched  to  the  trees 
outside,  Deacon,  I  thought  I'd  step  in.  I'm  not  sure 
it's  altogether  safe  for  all  of  us  to  be  standing  in  the 
middle  of  this  big  room,  though.  Sills  pretty  well 
rotted  out  —  eh,  Deacon  ?  " 

"  Sound  as  an  oak,"  snarled  the  Deacon.  "  As  I 
was  telling  th'  young  lady,  there  ain't  no  better  built 
house  anywheres  'round  than  this  one.  Andrew  Bol- 
ton  didn't  spare  other  folks'  money  when  he  built  it  — 
no,  sir!  It's  good  for  a  hundred  years  yet,  with 
trifling  repairs." 

"Who  owns  the  house  now?"  asked  Lydia  unex 
pectedly.  She  had  walked  over  to  one  of  the  long 
windows  opening  on  a  rickety  balcony  and  stood  look 
ing  out. 

"  Who  owns  it?  "  echoed  Deacon  Whittle.  "  Well, 
now,  we  can  give  you  a  clear  title,  ma'am,  when  it 
comes  to  that;  sound  an'  clear.  You  don't  have  to 
worry  none  about  that.  You  see  it  was  this  way; 
dunno  as  anybody's  mentioned  it  in  your  hearing  since 
you  come  to  Brookville;  but  we  use  to  have  a  bank 

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here  in  Brookville,  about  eighteen  years  ago,  and  — " 

"  Yes,  Ellen  Dix  told  me,"  interrupted  Lydia  Orr, 
without  turning  her  head.  "  Has  nobody  lived  here 
since  ?" 

Deacon  Whittle  cast  an  impatient  glance  at  Wesley 
Elliot,  who  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  broodingly  on 
the  dusty  floor. 

"Wai,"  said  he.  "  There'd  have  been  plenty  of 
folks  glad  enough  to  live  here;  but  the  house  wa'n't 
really  suited  to  our  kind  o'  folks.  It  wa'n't  a  farm  — 
there  being  only  twenty  acres  going  with  it.  And  you 
see  the  house  is  different  to  what  folks  in  moderate 
circumstances  could  handle.  Nobody  had  the  cash  to 
buy  it,  an'  ain't  had,  all  these  years.  It's  a  pity  to  see 
a  fine  old  property  like  this  a-going  down,  all  for  the 
lack  of  a  few  hundreds.  But  if  you  was  to  buy  it, 
ma'am,  I  could  put  it  in  shape  fer  you,  equal  to  the 
best,  and  at  a  figure  —  Wall ;  I  tell  ye,  it  won't  cost 
ye  what  some  folks'd  think." 

"  Didn't  that  man  —  the  banker  who  stole  —  every 
body's  money,  I  mean  —  didn't  he  have  any  family  ?  " 
asked  Lydia,  still  without  turning  her  head.  "  I  sup 
pose  he  —  he  died  a  long  time  ago  ?  " 

"  I  see  the  matter  of  th'  title's  worrying  you, 
ma'am/'  said  Deaton  Whittle  briskly.  "  I  like  to  see 
a  female  cautious  in  a  business  way:  I  do,  indeed. 
And  'tain't  often  you  see  it,  neither.  Now,  I'll  tell 
you  — " 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  well  to  show  Miss  Orr  some  more 
desirable  property,  Deacon  ?  "  interposed  Wesley  Elliot. 
"  It  seems  to  me  — " 

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"  Oh,  I  shall  buy  the  house,"  said  the  girl  at  the 
window,  quickly. 

She  turned  and  faced  the  two  men,  her  delicate  head 
thrown  back,  a  clear  color  staining  her  pale  cheeks. 

"  I  shall  buy  it,"  she  repeated.  "  I  —  I  like  it  very 
much.  It  is  just  what  I  wanted  —  in  —  in  every 
way." 

Deacon  Whittle  gave  vent  to  a  snort  of  astonish 
ment. 

"  There  was  another  party  looking  at  the  place  a 
spell  back,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  dry  old  hands.  "  I 
dunno's  I  exac'ly  give  him  an  option  on  it;  but  I  was 
sort  of  looking  for  him  to  turn  up  'most  any  day. 
Course  I'd  have  to  give  him  the  first  chance,  if  it 
comes  to  a — " 

"What  is  an  option?"  asked  Lydia. 

"An  option  is  a  —  now,  let  me  see  if  I  can  make 
a  legal  term  plain  to  the  female  mind:  An  option, 
my  dear  young  lady,  is  — " 

The  minister  crossed  the  floor  to  where  the  girl  was 
standing,  a  slight,  delicate  figure  in  her  black  dress, 
her  small  face  under  the  shadowy  brim  of  her  wide  hat 
looking  unnaturally  pale  in  the  greenish  light  from 
without. 

"  An  option,"  he  interposed  hurriedly,  "  must  be 
bought  with  money ;  should  you  change  your  mind  later 
you  lose  whatever  you  have  paid.  Let  me  advise 
you—" 

Deacon  Whittle  cleared  his  throat  with  an  angry, 
rasping  sound. 

"  Me  an'  this  young  lady  came  here  this  morning 

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for  the  purpose  of  transacting  a  little  business,  mu 
tually  advantageous,"  he  snarled.  "  If  it  was  anybody 
but  the  dominie,  I  should  say  he  was  butting  in  with 
out  cause." 

"  Oh,  don't,  please!  "  begged  the  girl.  "  Mr.  Elliot 
meant  it  kindly,  I'm  sure.  I  —  I  want  an  option,  if 
you  please.  You'll  let  me  have  it,  won't  you  ?  I  want 
it  —  now." 

Deacon  Whittle  blinked  and  drew  back  a  pace 
or  two,  as  if  her  eagerness  actually  frightened 
him. 

"I  —  I  guess  I  can  accommodate  ye,"  he  stuttered ; 
"  but  —  there'll  be  some  preliminaries  —  I  wa'n't  ex 
actly  prepared  —  There's  the  price  of  the  property 
and  the  terms  —  S'pose  likely  you'll  want  a  mort 
gage—eh?" 

He  rubbed  his  bristly  chin  dubiously. 

"  I  want  to  buy  the  house,"  Lydia  said.  "  I  want 
to  be  sure — " 

"  Have  you  seen  the  rooms  upstairs  ?  "  asked  the 
minister,  turning  his  back  upon  his  senior  deacon. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Well,  then,  why  not—" 

Wesley  Elliot  took  a  step  or  two  toward  the  wind 
ing  stair,  dimly  seen  through  the  gloom  of  the  hall. 

"  Hold  on,  dominie,  them  stairs  ain't  safe !  "  warned 
the  Deacon.  "  They'll  mebbe  want  a  little  shoring  up, 
before —  Say,  I  wish — " 

"  I  don't  care  to  go  up  now,  really,"  protested  the 
girl.  "  It  —  it's  the  location  I  like  and  — " 

She  glanced  about  the  desolate  place  with  a  shiver. 

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The  air  of  the  long-closed  rooms  was  chilly,  despite 
the  warmth  of  the  June  day  outside. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  said  the  deacon  briskly.  "  You 
come  right  along  down  to  the  village  with  me,  Miss 
Orr.  It's  kind  of  close  in  here;  the  house  is  built  so 
tight,  there  can't  no  air  git  in.  I  tell  you,  them 
walls  — " 

He  smote  the  one  nearest  him  with  a  jocular  palm. 
There  followed  the  hollow  sound  of  dropping  plaster 
from  behind  the  lath. 

"  Guess  we'd  better  fix  things  up  between  us,  so 
you  won't  be  noways  disappointed  in*  case  that  other 
party — "  he  added,  with  a  crafty  glance  at  the  minis 
ter.  "  You  see,  he  might  turn  up  'most  any  day." 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  walking  hurriedly 
to  the  door.  "I  —  I  should  like  to  go  at  once." 

She  turned  and  held  out  her  hand  to  the  minister 
with  a  smile. 

"  Thank  you  for  coming,"  she  said.  "  I  wanted 
you  to  see  the  house  as  it  is  now." 

He  looked  down  into  her  upturned  face  with  its 
almost  childish  appeal  of  utter  candor,  frowning 
slightly. 

"  Have  you  no  one  —  that  is,  no  near  relative  to 
advise  you  in  the  matter?  "  he  asked.  "  The  purchase 
of  a  large  property,  such  as  this,  ought  to  be  care 
fully  considered,  I  should  say." 

Deacon  Whittle  coughed  in  an  exasperated  manner. 

"  I  guess  we'd  better  be  gitting  along,"  said  he,  "  if 
we  want  to  catch  Jedge  Fulsom  in  his  office  before  he 
goes  to  dinner." 

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Lydia  turned  obediently. 

"  I'm  coming,"  she  said. 

Then  to  Elliott :  "  No ;  there  is  no  one  to  —  to 
advise  me.  I  am  obliged  to  decide  for  myself." 

Wesley  Elliot  returned  to  Brookville  and  his  unfin 
ished  sermon  by  a  long  detour  which  led  him  over  the 
shoulder  of  a  hill  overlooking  the  valley.  He  did  not 
choose  to  examine  his  motive  for  avoiding  the  road 
along  which  Fanny  Dodge  would  presently  return. 
But  as  the  path,  increasingly  rough  and  stony  as  it 
climbed  the  steep  ascent,  led  him  at  length  to  a  point 
from  whence  he  could  look  down  upon  a  toy  village, 
arranged  in  stiff  rows  about  a  toy  church,  with  its 
tiny  pointing  steeple  piercing  the  vivid  green  of  many 
trees,  he  sat  down  with  a  sigh  of  relief  and  something 
very  like  gratitude. 

As  far  back  as  he  could  remember  Wesley  Elliot 
had  cherished  a  firm,  though  somewhat  undefined,  be 
lief  in  a  quasi-omnipotent  power  to  be  reckoned  as 
either  hostile  or  friendly  to  the  purposes  of  man,  show 
ing  now  a  smiling,  now  a  frowning  face.  In  short,  that 
unquestioned,  wholly  uncontrollable  influence  outside 
of  a  man's  life,  which  appears  to  rule  his  destiny.  In 
this  role  "  Providence,"  as  he  had  been  taught  to  call 
it,  had  heretofore  smiled  rather  evasively  upon  Wesley 
Elliot.  He  had  been  permitted  to  make  sure  his 
sacred  calling;  but  he  had  not  secured  the  earnestly 
coveted  city  pulpit.  On  the  other  hand,  he  had  just 
been  saved  —  or  so  he  told  himself,  as  the  fragrant 
June  breeze  fanned  his  heated  forehead  —  by  a  distinct 
intervention  of  "  Providence  "  from  making  a  fool  of 


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himself.  His  subsequent  musings,  interrupted  at 
length  by  the  shrieking  whistle  of  the  noon  train  as  it 
came  to  a  standstill  at  the  toy  railway  station,  might 
be  termed  important,  since  they  were  to  influence  the 
immediate  future  of  a  number  of  persons,  thus  afford 
ing  a  fresh  illustration  of  the  mysterious  workings  of 
"  Providence,"  sometimes  called  "  Divine." 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  existed  in  Brookville  two  separate  and 
distinct  forums  for  the  discussion  of  topics 
of  public  and  private  interest.  These  were 
the  barroom  of  the  village  tavern,  known  as  the  Brook 
ville  House,  and  Henry  Daggett's  General  Store, 
located  on  the  corner  opposite  the  old  Bolton  Bank 
Building.  Mr.  Daggett,  besides  being  Brookville's 
leading  merchant,  was  also  postmaster,  and  twice  each 
day  withdrew  to  the  official  privacy  of  the  office  for 
the  transaction  of  United  States  business.  The  post 
office  was  conveniently  located  in  one  corner  of  Mr. 
Daggett's  store  and  presented  to  the  inquiring  eye  a 
small  glass  window,  which  could  be  raised  and  lowered 
at  will  by  the  person  behind  the  partition,  a  few  num 
bered  boxes  and  a  slit,  marked  "Letters." 

In  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  Miss  Lydia  Orr 
had  visited  the  old  Bolton  house  in  company  with  Dea 
con  Whittle,  both  forums  were  in  full  blast.  The 
wagon-shed  behind  the  Brookville  House  sheltered  an 
unusual  number  of  "  rigs,"  whose  owners,  after  par 
taking  of  liquid  refreshment  dispensed  by  the  oily 
young  man  behind  the  bar,  by  common  consent  strolled 
out  to  the  veranda  where  a  row  of  battered  wooden 
armchairs  invited  to  reposeful  consideration  of  the 
surprising  events  of  the  past  few  days. 

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The  central  chair  supported  the  large  presence  of 
"  Judge  "  Fulsom,  who  was  dispensing  both  informa 
tion  and  tobacco  juice. 

"  The  practice  of  the  legal  profession,"  said  the 
Judge,  after  a  brief  period  devoted  to  the  ruminative 
processes,  "  is  full  of  surprises." 

Having  spoken,  Judge  Fulsom  folded  his  fat  hands 
across  the  somewhat  soiled  expanse  of  his  white  waist 
coat  and  relapsed  into  a  weighty  silence. 

"  They  was  sayin'  over  to  the  post  office  this  even 
ing  that  the  young  woman  that  cleaned  up  the  church 
fair  has  bought  the  old  Bolton  place.  How  about  it, 
Jedge?" 

Judge  Fulsom  grunted,  as  he  leveled  a  displeased 
stare  upon  the  speaker,  a  young  farmer  with  a  bibulous 
eye  and  slight  swagger  of  defiance.  At  the  proper 
moment,  with  the  right  audience,  the  Judge  was  will 
ing  to  impart  information  with  lavish  generosity.  But 
any  attempt  to  force  his  hand  was  looked  upon  as  a 
distinct  infringement  of  his  privilege. 

"  You  want  to  keep  your  face  shut,  Lute,  till  th' 
Jedge  gets  ready  to  talk,"  counseled  a  middle-aged 
man  who  sat  tilted  back  in  the  next  chair.  "  Set 
down,  son,  and  cool  off." 

"  Well,  you  see  I  got  to  hurry  along,"  objected  the 
young  farmer  impatiently,  "  and  I  wanted  to  know  if 
there  was  anything  in  it.  Our  folks  had  money  in 
the  old  bank,  an'  we'd  give  up  getting  anything  more 
out  the  smash  years  ago.  But  if  the  Bolton  place  has 
actually  been  sold — " 

He  finished  with  a  prolonged  whistle. 

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The  greatness  in  the  middle  chair  emitted  a  grunt. 

"  Humph !  "  he  muttered,  and  again,  "  Hr-m-m-ph !  " 

"  It  would  be  surprising,"  conceded  the  middle-aged 
man,  "  after  all  these  years." 

"  Considerable  many  of  th'  creditors  has  died  since," 
piped  up  a  lean  youth  who  was  smoking  a  very  large 
cigar.  "  I  'spose  th'  children  of  all  such  would  come 
in  for  their  share  —  eh,  Judge? " 

Judge  Fulsom  frowned  and  pursed  his  lips  thought 
fully. 

"  The  proceedings  has  not  yet  reached  the  point 
you  mention,  Henry,"  he  said.  "  You're  going  a  lit 
tle  too  fast." 

Nobody  spoke,  but  the  growing  excitement  took  the 
form  of  a  shuffling  of  feet.  The  Judge  deliberately 
lighted  his  pipe,  a  token  of  mental  relaxation.  Then 
from  out  the  haze  of  blue  smoke,  like  the  voice  of  an 
oracle  from  the  seclusion  of  a  shrine,  issued  the  fa 
miliar  recitative  tone  for  which  everybody  had  been 
waiting. 

"  Well,  boys,  I'll  tell  you  how  'twas :  Along  about 
ten  minutes  of  twelve  I  had  my  hat  on  my  head,  and 
was  just  drawing  on  my  linen  duster  with  the  idea  of 
going  home  to  dinner,  when  I  happened  to  look  out 
of  my  office  window,  and  there  was  Deacon  Whittle 
—  and  the  girl,  just  coming  up  th'  steps.  In  five  min 
utes  more  I'd  have  been  gone,  most  likely  for  the 
day." 

"  Gosh !  "  breathed  the  excitable  young  farmer. 

The  middle-aged  man  sternly  motioned  him  to  keep 
silence. 

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"  I  s'pose  most  of  you  boys  saw  her  at  the  fair  last 
night,"  proceeded  the  Judge,  ignoring  the  interruption. 
"  She's  a  nice  appearing  young  female ;  but  nobody'd 
think  to  look  at  her  — " 

He  paused  to  ram  down  the  tobacco  in  the  glowing 
bowl  of  his  pipe. 

"  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  she'd  been  over  to  the  Bol- 
ton  house  with  the  Deacon.  Guess  we'll  have  to  set 
the  Deacon  down  for  a  right  smart  real-estate  boomer. 
We  didn't  none  of  us  give  him  credit  for  it.  He'd 
got  the  girl  all  worked  up  to  th'  point  of  bein'  afraid 
another  party'd  be  right  along  to  buy  the  place. 
She  wanted  an  option  on  it." 

"  Shucks !  "  again  interrupted  the  young  farmer 
disgustedly.  "  Them  options  ain't  no  good.  I  had 
one  once  on  five  acres  of  timber,  and  — " 

"  Shut  up,  Lute ! "  came  in  low  chorus  from  the 
spell-bound  audience. 

"  Wanted  an  option,"  repeated  Judge  Fulsom  loudly, 
"just  till  I  could  fix  up  the  paper.  '  And,  if  you 
please/  said  she,  '  I'd  like  t'  pay  five  thousand  dollars 
for  the  option,  then  I'd  feel  more  sure/  And  before  I 
had  a  chance  to  open  my  mouth,  she  whips  out  a  check 
book." 

"  Gr-reat  jumping  Judas!"  cried  the  irrepressible 
Lute,  whose  other  name  was  Parsons.  "  Five  thou 
sand  dollars!  \Vhy,  the  old  place  ain't  worth  no  five 
thousand  dollars ! " 

Judge  Fulsom  removed  his  pipe  from  his  mouth, 
knocked  out  the  half-burned  tobacco,  blew  through 
the  stem,  then  proceeded  to  fill  and  light  it  again. 

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From  the  resultant  haze  issued  his  voice  once  more, 
bland,  authoritative,  reminiscent. 

"  Well,  now,  son,  that  depends  on  how  you  look  at 
it.  Time  was  when  Andrew  Bolton  wouldn't  have 
parted  with  the  place  for  three  times  that  amount.  It 
was  rated,  I  remember,  at  eighteen  thousand,  including 
live  stock,  conveyances  an'  furniture,  when  it  was 
deeded  over  to  the  assignees.  We  sold  out  the  furni 
ture  and  stock  at  auction  for  about  half  what  they 
were  worth.  But  there  weren't  any  bidders  worth 
mentioning  for  the  house  and  land.  So  it  was  held  by 
the  assignees  —  Cephas  Dix,  Deacon  Whittle  and  my 
self  —  for  private  sale.  We  could  have  sold  it  on  easy 
terms  the  next  year  for  six  thousand ;  but  in  process  of 
trying  to  jack  up  our  customer  to  seven,  we  lost  out  on 
the  deal.  But  now  — " 

Judge  Fulsom  arose,  brushed  the  tobacco  from  his 
waistcoat  front  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Guess  I'll  have  to  be  getting  along,"  said  he;  "  im 
portant  papers  to  look  over,  and  — " 

"  A  female  woman,  like  her,  is  likely  to  change  her 
mind  before  tomorrow  morning,"  said  the  middle-aged 
man  dubiously.  "  And  I  heard  Mrs.  Solomon  Black 
had  offered  to  sell  her  place  to  the  young  woman  for 
twenty-nine  hundred  —  all  in  good  repair  and  neat 
as  wax.  She  might  take  it  into  her  head  to  buy 
it." 

"  Right  in  the  village,  too,"  growled  Lute  Parsons. 
"  Say,  Jedge,  did  you  give  her  that  option  she  was 
looking  for?  Because  if  you  did  she  can't  get  out  of 
it  so  easy." 

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Judge  Fulsom  twinkled  pleasantly  over  his  bulging 
cheeks. 

"  I  sure  did  accommodate  the  young  lady  with  the 
option,  as  aforesaid,"  he  vouchsafed.  "  And  what's 
more,  I  telephoned  to  the  Grenoble  Bank  to  see  if  her 
check  for  five  thousand  dollars  was  O.  K.  .  .  .  Well ; 
so  long,  boys !  " 

He  stepped  ponderously  down  from  the  piazza  and 
turned  his  broad  back  on  the  row  of  excited  faces. 

"  Hold  on,  Jedge ! "  the  middle-aged  man  called 
after  him.  "  Was  her  check  any  good?  You  didn't 
tell  us!" 

The  Judge  did  not  reply.  He  merely  waved  his 
hand. 

"  He's  going  over  to  the  post  office,"  surmised  the 
lean  youth,  shifting  the  stub  of  his  cigar  to  the  corner 
of  his  mouth  in  a  knowing  manner. 

He  lowered  his  heels  to  the  floor  with  a  thud  and 
prepared  to  follow.  Five  minutes  later  the  bartender, 
not  hearing  the  familiar  hum  of  voices  from  the  piazza, 
thrust  his  head  out  of  the  door. 

"  Say !  "  he  called  out  to  the  hatchet- faced  woman 
who  was  writing  down  sundry  items  in  a  ledger  at  a 
high  desk.  "  The  boys  has  all  cleared  out.  What's 
up,  I  wonder? " 

"  They'll  be  back,"  said  the  woman  imperturbably, 
"  an'  more  with  'em.  You  want  t'  git  your  glasses  all 
washed  up,  Gus ;  an'  you  may  as  well  fetch  up  another 
demijohn  out  the  cellar." 

Was  it  foreknowledge,  or  merely  coincidence  which 
at  this  same  hour  led  Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  frugally 

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inspecting  her  supplies  for  tomorrow  morning's  break 
fast,  to  discover  that  her  baking-powder  can  was 
empty  ? 

"  I'll  have  to  roll  out  a  few  biscuits  for  their  break 
fast,"  she  decided,  "  or  else  I'll  run  short  of  bread  for 
dinner." 

Her  two  boarders,  Lydia  Orr  and  the  minister,  were 
sitting  on  the  piazza,  engaged  in  what  appeared  to  be  a 
most  interesting  conversation,  when  Mrs.  Black  un 
latched  the  front  gate  and  emerged  upon  the  street,  her 
second-best  hat  carefully  disposed  upon  her  water- 
waves. 

"  I  won't  be  gone  a  minute,"  she  paused  to  assure 
them ;  "  I  just  got  to  step  down  to  the  grocery." 

A  sudden  hush  fell  upon  a  loud  and  excited  con 
versation  when  Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  very  erect  as  to 
her  spinal  column  and  noticeably  composed  and  digni 
fied  in  her  manner,  entered  Henry  Daggett's  store. 
She  walked  straight  past  the  group  of  men  who  stood 
about  the  door  to  the  counter,  where  Mr.  Daggett  was 
wrapping  in  brown  paper  two  large  dill  pickles  drip 
ping  sourness  for  a  small  girl  with  straw-colored  pig 
tails. 

Mr.  Daggett  beamed  cordially  upon  Mrs.  Black,  as 
he  dropped  two  copper  pennies  in  his  cash-drawer. 

"  Good  evening,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "  What  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

"  A  ten-cent  can  of  baking-powder,  if  you  please," 
replied  the  lady  primly. 

"  Must  take  a  lot  of  victuals  to  feed  them  two 
boarders  o'  yourn,"  hazarded  Mr.  Daggett,  still  cor- 

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dially,  and  with  a  dash  of  confidential  sympathy  in  his 
voice. 

Mr.  Daggett  had,  by  virtue  of  long  association  with 
his  wife,  acquired  something  of  her  spontaneous  warm 
heartedness.  He  had  found  it  useful  in  his  business. 

"  Oh,  they  ain't  neither  of  'em  so  hearty,"  said  Mrs. 
Black,  searching  in  her  pocket-book  with  the  air  of  one 
who  is  in  haste. 

"  We  was  just  speakin'  about  the  young  woman 
that's  stopping  at  your  house,"  murmured  Mr.  Dag 
gett.  "  Let  me  see ;  I  disremember  which  kind  of 
bakin'-powder  you  use,  Mis'  Black." 

"  The  Golden  Rule  brand,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Dag 
gett." 

"  H'm;  let  me  see  if  I've  got  one  of  them  Golden 
Rules  left,"  mused  Mr.  Daggett.  ..."  I  told  the 
boys  I  guessed  she  was  some  relation  of  th'  Grenoble 
Orrs,  an'  mebbe  — " 

"  Well ;  she  ain't,"  denied  Mrs.  Black  crisply. 

"  M-m-m  ?  "  interrogated  Mr.  Daggett,  intent  upon 
a  careful  search  among  the  various  canned  products  on 
his  shelf.  "  How'd  she  happen  to  come  to  Brook- 
ville?" 

Mrs.  Black  tossed  her  head. 

"  Of  course  it  ain't  for  me  to  say,"  she  returned, 
with  a  dignity  which  made  her  appear  taller  than  she 
really  was.  "  But  folks  has  heard  of  the  table  I  set, 
'way  to  Boston." 

"You  don't  say!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Daggett.  "  So 
she  come  from  Boston,  did  she  ?  I  thought  she  seemed 
kind  of  — " 

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"  I  don't  know  as  there's  any  secret  about  where 
she  come  from,"  returned  Mrs.  Black  aggressively. 
"  I  never  s'posed  there  was.  Folks  ain't  had  time  to 
git  acquainted  with  her  yit." 

"  That's  so/'  agreed  Mr.  Daggett,  as  if  the  idea  was 
a  new  and  valuable  one.  "  Yes,  ma'am ;  you're  right ! 
we  ain't  none  of  us  had  time  to  git  acquainted." 

He  beamed  cordially  upon  Mrs.  Black  over  the  tops 
of  his  spectacles.  "  Looks  like  we're  going  to  git  a 
chance  to  know  her,"  he  went  on.  "  It  seems  the 
young  woman  has  made  up  her  mind  to  settle  amongst 
us.  Yes,  ma'am ;  we've  been  hearing  she's  on  the 
point  of  buying  property  and  settling  right  down  here 
in  Brookville." 

An  excited  buzz  of  comment  in  the  front  of  the 
store  broke  in  upon  this  confidential  conversation. 
Mrs.  Black  appeared  to  become  aware  for  the  first  time 
of  the  score  of  masculine  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"Ain't  you  got  any  of  the  Golden  Rule?"  she  de 
manded  sharply.  "  That  looks  like  it  to  me  —  over 
in  behind  them  cans  of  tomatoes.  It's  got  a  blue 
label." 

"  Why,  yes ;  here  'tis,  sure  enough,"  admitted  Mr. 
Daggett.  "  I  guess  I  must  be  losing  my  eyesight.  .  .  . 
It's  going  to  be  quite  a  chore  to  fix  up  the  old  Bolton 
house,"  he  added,  as  he  inserted  the  blue  labeled  can 
of  reputation  in  a  red  and  yellow  striped  paper  bag. 

"  That  ain't  decided,"  snapped  Mrs.  Black.  "  She 
could  do  better  than  to  buy  that  tumble-down  old 
shack." 

"  So  she  could ;  so  she  could,"  soothed  the  post- 
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master.  "  But  it's  going  to  be  a  good  thing  for 
the  creditors,  if  she  can  swing  it.  Let  me  see,  you 
wa'n't  a  loser  in  the  Bolton  Bank;  was  you,  Mis' 
Black?" 

"  No ;  I  wa'n't ;  my  late  departed  husband  had  too 
much  horse-sense." 

And  having  thus  impugned  less  fortunate  persons, 
Mrs.  Solomon  Black  departed,  a  little  stiffer  as  to  her 
back-bone  than  when  she  entered.  She  had  imparted 
information;  she  had  also  acquired  it.  When  she  had 
returned  rather  later  than  usual  from  selling  her  straw 
berries  in  Grenoble  she  had  hurried  her  vegetables  on 
to  boil  and  set  the  table  for  dinner.  She  could  hear 
the  minister  pacing  up  and  down  his  room  in  the  rest 
less  way  which  Mrs.  Black  secretly  resented,  since  it 
would  necessitate  changing  the  side  breadths  of  mat 
ting  to  the  middle  of  the  floor  long  before  this  should 
be  done.  But  of  Lydia  Orr  there  was  no  sign.  The 
minister  came  promptly  down  stairs  at  sound  of  the 
belated  dinner-bell.  But  to  Mrs.  Black's  voluble  ex 
planations  for  the  unwonted  hour  he  returned  the 
briefest  of  perfunctory  replies.  He  seemed  hungry 
and  ate  heartily  of  the  cold  boiled  beef  and  vegetables. 

"  Did  you  see  anything  of  her  this  morning?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Black  pointedly,  as  she  cut  the  dried-apple  pie. 
"  I  can't  think  what's  become  of  her." 

Wesley  Elliot  glanced  up  from  an  absent-minded 
contemplation  of  an  egg  spot  on  the  tablecloth. 

"  If  you  refer  to  Miss  Orr,"  said  he,  "  I  did  see  her 
—  in  a  carriage  with  Deacon  Whittle." 

He  was  instantly  ashamed  of  the  innocent  prevari- 

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cation.  But  he  told  himself  he  did  not  choose  to  dis 
cuss  Miss  Orr's  affairs  with  Mrs.  Black. 

Just  then  Lydia  came  in,  her  eyes  shining,  her  cheeks 
very  pink;  but  like  the  minister  she  seemed  disposed 
to  silence,  and  Mrs.  Black  was  forced  to  restrain  her 
curiosity. 

"  How'd  you  make  out  this  morning?  "  she  inquired, 
as  Lydia,  having  hurried  through  her  dinner,  rose  to 
leave  the  table. 

"  Very  well,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Black,"  said  the  girl 
brightly.  Then  she  went  at  once  to  her  room  and 
closed  the  door. 

At  supper  time  it  was  just  the  same ;  neither  the  min 
ister  nor  the  girl  who  sat  opposite  him  had  anything 
to  say.  But  no  sooner  had  Mrs.  Black  begun  to  clear 
away  the  dishes  than  the  two  withdrew  to  the  vine- 
shaded  porch,  as  if  by  common  consent. 

"  She  ought  to  know  right  off  about  Fanny  Dodge 
and  the  minister,"  Mrs.  Black  told  herself. 

She  was  still  revolving  this  in  her  mind  as  she  walked 
sedately  along  the  street,  the  red  and  yellow  striped 
bag  clasped  tightly  in  both  hands.  Of  course  every 
body  in  the  village  would  suppose  she  knew  all  about 
Lydia  Orr.  But  the  fact  was  she  knew  very  little. 
The  week  before,  one  of  her  customers  in  Grenoble, 
in  the  course  of  a  business  transaction  which  involved 
a  pair  of  chickens,  a  dozen  eggs  and  two  boxes  of 
strawberries,  had  asked,  in  a  casual  way,  if  Mrs.  Black 
knew  any  one  in  Brookville  who  kept  boarders. 

"  The  minister  of  our  church  boards  with  me,"  she 
told  the  Grenoble  woman,  with  pardonable  pride.  "  I 

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don't  know  of  anybody  else  that  takes  boarders  in 
Brookville."     She  added  that  she  had  an  extra  room. 

"  Well,  one  of  my  boarders  —  a  real  nice  young  lady 
from  Boston  —  has  taken  a  queer  notion  to  board  in 
Brookville,''  said  the  woman.  "  She  was  out  autoing 
the  other  day  and  went  through  there.  I  guess  the 
country  'round  Brookville  must  be  real  pretty  this  time 
of  year." 

"Yes;  it  is,  real  pretty,"  she  had  told  the  Grenoble 
woman. 

And  this  had  been  the  simple  prelude  to  Lydia  Orr's 
appearance  in  Brookville. 

Wooded  hills  did  not  interest  Mrs.  Black,  nor  did 
the  meandering  of  the  silver  river  through  its  narrow 
valley.  But  she  took  an  honest  pride  in  her  own 
freshly  painted  white  house  with  its  vividly  green 
blinds,  and  in  her  front  yard  with  its  prim  rows  of 
annuals  and  thrifty  young  dahlias.  As  for  Miss  Lydia 
Orr's  girlish  rapture  over  the  view  from  her  bedroom 
window,  so  long  as  it  was  productive  of  honestly  earned 
dollars,  Mrs.  Black  was  disposed  to  view  it  with  in 
dulgence.  There  was  nothing  about  the  girl  or  her 
possessions  to  indicate  wealth  or  social  importance, 
beyond  the  fact  that  she  arrived  in  a  hired  automobile 
from  Grenoble  instead  of  riding  over  in  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black's  spring  wagon.  Miss  Orr  brought  with  her  to 
Brookville  one  trunk,  the  contents  of  which  she  had 
arranged  at  once  in  the  bureau  drawers  and  wardrobe 
of  Mrs.  Black's  second-best  bedroom.  It  was  evident 
from  a  private  inspection  of  their  contents  that  Miss 
Orr  was  in  mourning. 

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At  this  point  in  her  meditations  Mrs.  Black  became 
aware  of  an  insistent  voice  hailing  her  from  the  other 
side  of  the  picket  fence. 

It  was  Mrs.  Daggett,  her  large  fair  face  flushed  with 
the  exertion  of  hurrying  down  the  walk  leading  from 
Mrs.  Whittle's  house. 

"  Some  of  us  ladies  has  been  clearing  up  after  the 
fair,"  she  explained,  as  she  joined  Mrs.  Solomon  Black. 
"  It  didn't  seem  no  more  than  right;  for  even  if  Ann 
Whittle  doesn't  use  her  parlor,  on  account  of  not  hav 
ing  it  furnished  up,  she  wants  it  broom-clean.  My! 
You'd  ought  to  have  seen  the  muss  we  swept  out." 

"  I'd  have  been  glad  to  help,"  said  Mrs.  Black 
stiffly;  "but  what  with  it  being  my  day  to  go  over  to 
Grenoble,  and  my  boarders  t'  cook  for  and  all  — " 

"  Oh,  we  didn't  expect  you,"  said  Abby  Daggett 
tranquilly.  "  There  was  enough  of  us  to  do  every 
thing."  ' 

She  beamed  warmly  upon  Mrs.  Black. 

"  Us  ladies  was  saying  we'd  all  better  give  you  a 
rising  vote  of  thanks  for  bringing  that  sweet  Miss  Orr 
to  the  fair.  Why,  'twas  a  real  success  after  all;  we 
took  in  two  hundred  and  forty-seven  dollars  and 
twenty-nine  cents.  Ain't  that  splendid  ?  " 

Mrs.  Black  nodded.  She  felt  suddenly  proud  of  her 
share  in  this  success. 

"  I  guess  she  wouldn't  have  come  to  the  fair  if  I 
hadn't  told  her  about  it,"  she  admitted.  "  She  only 
come  to  my  house  yesterd'y  morning." 

"  In  an  auto  ?  "  inquired  Abby  Daggett  eagerly. 

"  Yes,"  nodded  Mrs.  Black.  "  I  told  her  I  could 

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bring  her  over  in  the  wagon  just  as  well  as  not;  but 
she  said  she  had  the  man  all  engaged.  I  told  her  we 
was  going  to  have  a  fair,  and  she  said  right  off  she 
wanted  to  come." 

Abby  Daggett  laid  her  warm  plump  hand  on  Mrs. 
Black's  arm. 

"  I  dunno  when  I've  took  such  a  fancy  to  anybody 
at  first  sight,"  she  said  musingly.  "  She's  what  I  call 
a  real  sweet  girl.  I'm  just  going  to  love  her,  I  know." 

She  gazed  beseechingly  at  Mrs.  Solomon  Black. 

"  Mebbe  you'll  think  it's  just  gossipy  curiosity ;  but 
I  would  like  to  know  where  that  girl  come  from,  and 
who  her  folks  was,  and  how  she  happened  to  come  to 
Brookville.  I  s'pose  you  know  all  about  her;  don't 
you?" 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  coughed  slightly.  She  was 
aware  of  the  distinction  she  had  already  acquired  in  the 
eyes  of  Brookville  from  the  mere  fact  of  Lydia  Orr's 
presence  in  her  house. 

"  If  I  do,"  she  began  cautiously,  "  I  don't  know  was 
it's  for  me  to  say." 

"  Don't  fer  pity's  sake  think  I'm  nosey,"  besought 
Abby  Daggett  almost  tearfully.  "  You  know  I  ain't 
that  kind;  but  I  don't  see  how  folks  is  going  to  help 
being  interested  in  a  sweet  pretty  girl  like  Miss  Orr, 
and  her  coming  so  unexpected.  And  you  know  there's 
them  that'll  invent  things  that  ain't  true,  if  they  don't 
hear  the  facts." 

"  She's  from  Boston,"  said  Mrs.  Solomon  Black 
grudgingly.  "  You  can  tell  Lois  Daggett  that  much, 
if  she's  getting  anxious." 

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Mrs.  Daggett's  large  face  crimsoned.  She  was  one 
of  those  soft,  easily  hurt  persons  whose  blushes  bring 
tears.  She  sniffed  a  little  and  raised  her  handkerchief 
to  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  afraid  you'd  — " 

"  Well,  of  course  I  ain't  scared  of  you,  Abby,"  re 
lented  Mrs.  Black.  "  But  I  says  to  myself,  '  I'm  goin' 
to  let  Lydia  Orr  stand  on  her  two  own  feet  in  this 
town/  I  says.  She  can  say  what  she  likes  about  her 
self,  an'  there  won't  be  no  lies  coming  home  to  roost  at 
my  house.  I  guess  you'd  feel  the  very  same  way  if  you 
was  in  my  place,  Abby." 

Mrs.  Daggett  glanced  with  childish  admiration  at 
the  other  woman's  magenta-tinted  face  under  its  jetty 
water-waves.  Even  Mrs.  Black's  everyday  hat  was 
handsomer  than  her  own  Sunday-best. 

"  You  always  was  so  smart  an'  sensible,  Phoebe,"  she 
said  mildly.  "  I  remember  'way  back  in  school,  when 
we  was  both  girls,  you  always  could  see  through  arith 
metic  problems  right  off,  when  I  couldn't  for  the  life 
of  me.  I  guess  you're  right  about  letting  her  speak 
for  herself." 

"Course  I  am!"  agreed  Mrs.  Black  triumphantly. 

She  had  extricated  herself  from  a  difficulty  with 
flying  colors.  She  would  still  preserve  her  reputation 
for  being  a  close-mouthed  woman  who  knew  a  lot 
more  about  everything  than  she  chose  to  tell. 

"  Anybody  can  see  she's  wearing  mournin',"  she 
added  benevolently. 

"  Oh,  I  thought  mebbe  she  had  a  black  dress  on  be 
cause  they're  stylish.  She  did  look  awful  pretty  in 


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it,  with  her  arms  and  neck  showing  through.  I  like 
black  myself;  but  mourning  —  that's  different.  Poor 
young  thing,  1  wonder  who  it  was.  Her  father, 
mebbe,  or  her  mother.  You  didn't  happen  to  hear  her 
say,  did  you,  Phoebe?  " 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  compressed  her  lips  tightly. 
She  paused  at  her  own  gate  with  majestic  dignity. 

"  I  guess  I'll  have  to  hurry  right  in,  Abby,"  said 
she.  "  I  have  my  bread  to  set." 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  had  closed  her  gate  behind  her, 
noticing  as  she  did  so  that  Wesley  Elliot  and  Lydia 
Orr  had  disappeared  from  the  piazza  where  she  had 
left  them.  She  glanced  at  Mrs.  Daggett,  lingering 
wistfully  before  the  gate. 

"  Goodnight,  Abby,"  said  she  firmly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

MRS.  MARIA  DODGE  sifted  flour  over  her 
molding  board  preparatory  to  transfer 
ring  the  sticky  mass  of  newly  made  dough 
from  the  big  yellow  mixing  bowl  to  the  board.  More 
flour  and  a  skillful  twirl  or  two  of  the  lump  and  the 
process  of  kneading  was  begun.  It  continued  monot 
onously  for  the  space  of  two  minutes;  then  the  mo 
tions  became  gradually  slower,  finally  coming  to  a  full 
stop. 

"  My  patience ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Dodge,  slapping 
her  dough  smartly.  "  Fanny  ought  to  be  ready  by 
now.  They'll  be  late  —  both  of  'em." 

She  hurriedly  crossed  the  kitchen  to  where,  through 
a  partly  open  door,  an  uncar peted  stair  could  be  seen 
winding  upward. 

"  Fanny !  "  she  called  sharply.  "  Fanny !  ain't  you 
ready  yet  ? " 

A  quick  step  in  the  passage  above,  a  subdued  whis 
tle,  and  her  son  Jim  came  clattering  down  the  stair. 
He  glanced  at  his  mother,  a  slight  pucker  between  his 
handsome  brows.  She  returned  the  look  with  one  of 
fond  maternal  admiration. 

"  How  nice  you  do  look,  Jim,"  said  she,  and  smiled 
up  at  her  tall  son.  "  I  always  did  like  you  in  red, 
and  that  necktie  — " 

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Jim  Dodge  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  laugh. 

"  Don't  know  about  that  tie,"  he  said.  "  Kind  of 
crude  and  flashy,  ain't  it,  mother?  " 

"  Flashy  ?  No,  of  course  it  ain't.  It  looks  real 
stylish  with  the  brown  suit." 

"  Stylish,"  repeated  the  young  man.  "  Yes,  I'm 
a  regular  swell  —  everything  up  to  date,  latest  Broad 
way  cut." 

He  looked  down  with  some  bitterness  at  his  stalwart 
young  person  clad  in  clothes  somewhat  shabby,  de 
spite  a  recent  pressing. 

Mrs.  Dodge  had  returned  to  her  bread  which  had 
spread  in  a  mass  of  stickiness  all  over  the  board. 

"Where's  Fanny?"  she  asked,  glancing  up  at  the 
noisy  little  clock  on  the  shelf  above  her  head.  "  Tell 
her  to  hurry,  Jim.  You're  late,  now." 

Jim  passed  his  hand  thoughtfully  over  his  clean 
shaven  chin. 

"  You  might  as  well  know,  mother ;  Fan  isn't  go 
ing." 

"Not  going?"  echoed  Mrs.  Dodge,  sharp  dismay 
in  voice  and  eyes.  "  Why,  I  did  up  her  white  dress 
a-purpose,  and  she's  been  making  up  ribbon  bows." 

She  extricated  her  fingers  from  the  bread  and  again 
hurried  across  the  floor. 

Her  son  intercepted  her  with  a  single  long  stride. 

"  No  use,  mother,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Better  let  her 
alone." 

"  You  think  it's  —  ?  " 

The  young  man  slammed  the  door  leading  to  the 
stairway  with  a  fierce  gesture. 

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"If  you  weren't  blinder  than  a  bat,  mother, 
you'd  know  by  this  time  what  ailed  Fan,"  he  said  an 
grily. 

Mrs.  Dodge  sank  into  a  chair  by  the  table. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  blind,"  she  denied  weakly;  "but  I 
thought  mebbe  Fannie  —  I  hoped  — " 

"  Did  you  think  she'd  refused  him?  "  demanded  Jim 
roughly.  "  Did  you  suppose  —  ?  Huh !  makes  me 
mad  clean  through  to  think  of  it." 

Mrs.  Dodge  began  picking  the  dough  off  her  fingers 
and  rolling  it  into  little  balls  which  she  laid  in  a  row 
on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"  I've  been  awful  worried  about  Fanny  —  ever  since 
the  night  of  the  fair,"  she  confessed.  "  He  was  here 
all  that  afternoon  and  stayed  to  tea ;  don't  you  remem 
ber  ?  And  they  were  just  as  happy  together  —  I  guess 
I  can  tell !  But  he  ain't  been  near  her  since." 

She  paused  to  wipe  her  eyes  on  a  corner  of  her 
gingham  apron. 

"  Fanny  thought  —  at  least  I  sort  of  imagined  Mr. 
Elliot  didn't  like  the  way  you  treated  him  that  night," 
she  went  on  piteously.  "  You're  kind  of  short  in  your 
ways,  Jim,  if  you  don't  like  anybody;  don't  you  know 
you  are?" 

The  young  man  had  thrust  his  hands  deep  in  his 
trousers'  pockets  and  was  glowering  at  the  dough  on 
the  molding  board. 

"  That's  rotten  nonsense,  mother,"  he  burst  out. 
"  Do  you  suppose,  if  a  man's  really  in  love  with  a  girl, 
he's  going  to  care  a  cotton  hat  about  the  way  her 
brother  treats  him  ?  You  don't  know  much  about  men 


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if  you  think  so.  No;  you're  on  the  wrong  track.  It 
wasn't  my  fault." 

His  mother's  tragic  dark  eyes  entreated  him  tim 
idly. 

"  I'm  awfully  afraid  Fanny's  let  herself  get  all 
wrapped  up  in  the  minister,"  she  half  whispered. 
"  And  if  he  — " 

"  I'd  like  to  thrash  him ! "  interrupted  her  son  in  a 
low  tense  voice.  "  He's  a  white-livered,  cowardly 
hypocrite,  that's  my  name  for  Wesley  Elliot !  " 

"  But,  Jim,  that  ain't  goin'  to  help  Fanny  —  what 
you  think  of  Mr.  Elliot.  And  anyway,  it  ain't  so. 
It's  something  else.  Do  you  —  suppose,  you  could  — 
You  wouldn't  like  to  —  to  speak  to  him,  Jim  —  would 
you?" 

"  What !  speak  to  that  fellow  about  my  sister  ? 
Why,  mother,  you  must  be  crazy !  What  could  I  say  ? 
— *  My  sister  Fanny  is  in  love  with  you ;  and  I 
don't  think  you're  treating  her  right.'  Is  that  your 
idea?" 

"  Hush,  Jim!  Don't  talk  so  loud.  She  might  hear 
you." 

"  No  danger  of  that,  mother ;  she  was  lying  on  her 
bed,  her  face  in  the  pillow,  when  I  looked  in  her  room 
ten  minutes  ago.  Said  she  had  a  headache  and  wasn't 
going." 

Mrs.  Dodge  drew  a  deep,  dispirited  sigh. 

"If  there  was  only  something  a  body  could  do,"  she 
began.  "  You  might  get  into  conversation  with  him, 
kind  of  careless,  couldn't  you,  Jim?  And  then  you 
might  mention  that  he  hadn't  been  to  see  us  for  two 

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weeks  —  'course  you'd  put  it  real  cautious,  then  per 
haps  he  — " 

A  light  hurried  step  on  the  stair  warned  them  to  si 
lence;  the  door  was  pushed  open  and  Fanny  Dodge 
entered  the  kitchen.  She  was  wearing  the  freshly 
ironed  white  dress,  garnished  with  crisp  pink  ribbons ; 
her  cheeks  were  brilliant  with  color,  her  pretty  head 
poised  high. 

"  I  changed  my  mind,"  said  she,  in  a  hard,  sweet 
voice.  "I  decided  I'd  go,  after  all.  My  —  my  head 
feels  better." 

Mother  and  son  exchanged  stealthy  glances  behind 
the  girl's  back  as  she  leaned  toward  the  cracked  mirror 
between  the  windows,  apparently  intent  upon  captur 
ing  an  airy  tendril  of  hair  which  had  escaped  confine 
ment. 

"  That's  real  sensible,  Fanny,"  approved  Mrs. 
Dodge  with  perfunctory  cheerfulness.  "  I  want  you 
should  go  out  all  you  can,  whilest  you're  young,  an' 
have  a  good  time." 

Jim  Dodge  was  silent;  but  the  scowl  between  his 
eyes  deepened. 

Mrs.  Dodge  formed  three  words  with  her  lips,  as  she 
shook  her  head  at  him  warningly. 

Fanny  burst  into  a  sudden  ringing  laugh. 

"  Oh,  I  can  see  you  in  the  glass,  mother,"  she  cried. 
"  I  don't  care  what  Jim  says  to  me ;  he  can  say  any 
thing  he  likes." 

Her  beautiful  face,  half  turned  over  her  shoulder, 
quivered  slightly. 

"If  you  knew  how  I  — "  she  began,  then  stopped  short. 
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"  That's  just  what  I  was  saying  to  Jim,"  put  in  her 
mother  eagerly. 

The  girl  flung  up  both  hands  in  a  gesture  of  angry 
protest. 

"  Please  don't  talk  about  me,  mother  —  to  Jim,  or 
anybody.  Do  you  hear?  " 

Her  voice  shrilled  suddenly  loud  and  harsh,  like  an 
untuned  string  under  the  bow. 

Jim  Dodge  flung  his  hat  on  his  head  with  an  impa 
tient  exclamation. 

"  Come  on,  Fan,"  he  said  roughly.  "  Nobody's  go 
ing  to  bother  you.  Don't  you  worry." 

Mrs.  Dodge  had  gone  back  to  her  kneading  board 
and  was  thumping  the  dough  with  regular  slapping 
motions  of  her  capable  hands,  but  her  thin  dark  face 
was  drawn  into  a  myriad  folds  and  puckers  of  anxiety. 

Fanny  stooped  and  brushed  the  lined  forehead  with 
her  fresh  young  lips. 

"  Goodnight,  mother,"  said  she.  "  I  wish  you  were 
going." 

She  drew  back  a  little  and  looked  down  at  her 
mother,  smiling  brilliantly. 

"  And  don't  you  worry  another  minute  about  me, 
mother,"  she  said  resolutely.  "  I'm  all  right." 

"  Oh,  I  do  hope  so,  child,"  returned  her  mother, 
sniffing  back  her  ready  tears.  "  I'd  hate  to  feel  that 
you  — " 

The  girl  hurried  to  the  door,  where  her  brother 
stood  watching  her. 

"  Come  on,  Jim,"  she  said.  "  We  have  to  stop  for 
Ellen." 

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She  followed  him  down  the  narrow  path  to  the  gate, 
holding  her  crisp  white  skirts  well  away  from  the  dew- 
drenched  border.  As  the  two  emerged  upon  the  road, 
lying  white  before  them  under  the  brilliant  moon 
light,  Fanny  glanced  up  timidly  at  her  brother's  dimly 
seen  profile  under  the  downward  sweep  of  his  hat- 
brim. 

"It's  real  dusty,  isn't  it?"  said  she,  by  way  of 
breaking  a  silence  she  found  unbearable.  "  It'll  make 
my  shoes  look  horrid." 

"  Walk  over  on  the  side  more,"  advised  Jim  laconi 
cally. 

"  Then  I'll  get  in  with  all  those  weeds ;  they're  cov 
ered  with  dust  and  wet,  besides,"  objected  Fanny.  .  .  . 
"Say,  Jim!" 

"Well?" 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  we  had  an  auto,  then  I  could 
step  in,  right  in  front  of  the  house,  and  keep  as  clean 


as—" 


The  young  man  laughed. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  an  aeroplane  better,  Fan  ?  I 
believe  I  would." 

"  You  could  keep  it  in  the  barn;  couldn't  you,  Jim?  " 

"  No,"  derided  Jim,  "  the  barn  isn't  what  you'd  call 
up-to-date.  I  require  a  hangar  —  or  whatever  you 
call  'em." 

The  girl  smothered  a  sigh. 

"  If  we  weren't  so  poor  — "  she  began. 

"Well?" 

"  Oh  —  lots  of  things.  .  .  .  They  say  that  Orr  girl 
has  heaps  of  money." 

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"  Who  says  so?  "  demanded  her  brother  roughly. 

"  Why,  everybody.  Joyce  Fulsom  told  me  her 
father  said  so;  and  he  ought  to  know.  Do  you  sup 
pose—  ?" 

"Do  I  suppose  what?" 

Jim's  tone  was  almost  savage. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Jim?  " 

Fanny's  sweet  voice  conveyed  impatience,  almost 
reproach.  It  was  as  if  she  had  said  to  her  brother, 
"  You  know  how  I  must  feel,  and  yet  you  are  cross 
with  me." 

Jim  glanced  down  at  her,  sudden  relenting  in  his 
heart. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  it's  pretty  hard  lines  for  both 
of  us,"  said  he.  "  If  we  were  rich  and  could  come 
speeding  into  town  in  a  snappy  auto,  our  clothes  in 
the  latest  style,  I  guess  things  would  be  different. 
There's  no  use  talking,  Fan ;  there's  mighty  little  chance 
for  our  sort.  And  if  there's  one  thing  I  hate  more 
than  another  it's  what  folks  call  sympathy." 

"  So  do  I !  "  cried  Fanny.  "  I  simply  can't  bear  it 
to  know  that  people  are  saying  behind  my  back, 
'  There's  poor  Fanny  Dodge ;  I  wonder  — '  Then  they 
squeeze  your  hand,  and  gaze  at  you  and  sigh.  Even 
mother  —  I  want  you  to  tell  mother  I'm  not  —  that 
it  isn't  true  —  I  can't  talk  to  her,  Jim." 

"  I'll  put  her  wise,"  said  Jim  gruffly. 

After  a  pause,  during  which  both  walked  faster  than 
before,  he  said  hurriedly,  as  if  the  words  broke  loose : 

"  Don't  you  give  that  fellow  another  thought,  Fan. 
He  isn't  worth  it !  " 

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The  girl  started  like  a  blooded  horse  under  the  whip. 
She  did  not  pretend  to  misunderstand. 

"  I  know  you  never  liked  him,  Jim/'  she  said  after  a 
short  silence. 

"  You  bet  I  didn't !  Forget  him,  Fan.  That's  all  I 
have  to  say." 

"  But  —  if  I  only  knew  what  it  was  —  I  must  have 
done  something  —  said  something  —  I  keep  wonder 
ing  and  wondering.  I  can't  help  it,  Jim." 

There  was  an  irrepressible  sob  in  the  girl's 
voice. 

"  Come,  Fan,  pull  yourself  together,"  he  urged. 
"  Here's  Ellen  waiting  for  us  by  the  gate.  Don't  for 
heaven's  sake  give  yourself  away.  Keep  a  stiff  upper 
lip,  old  girl!" 

1 '  Well,  I  thought  you  two  were  never  coming!" 
Ellen's  full  rich  voice  floated  out  to  them,  as  they 
came  abreast  of  the  Dix  homestead  nestled  back  among 
tall  locust  trees. 

The  girl  herself  daintily  picked  her  way  toward  them 
among  the  weeds  by  the  roadside.  She  uttered  a  little 
cry  of  dismay  as  a  stray  branch  caught  in  her  muslin 
skirts. 

"  That's  the  sign  of  a  beau,  Ellen,"  laughed  Fanny, 
with  extravagant  gayety.  "  The  bigger  the  stick  the 
handsomer  and  richer  the  beau." 

"  What  made  you  so  late  ?  "  inquired  Ellen,  as  all 
three  proceeded  on  their  way,  the  two  girls  linked 
affectionately  arm  in  arm;  Jim  Dodge  striding  in  the 
middle  of  the  road  a  little  apart  from  his  compan 
ions. 

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"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  fibbed  Fanny.  "  I  guess  I  was 
slow  starting  to  dress.  The  days  are  so  long  now  I 
didn't  realize  how  late  it  was  getting." 

Ellen  glanced  sympathizingly  at  her  friend. 

"  I  was  afraid  you  wouldn't  want  to  come,  Fanny," 
she  murmured,  "  seeing  the  social  is  at  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black's  house." 

"Why  shouldn't  I  want  to  come?"  demanded 
Fanny  aggressively. 

"  Well,  I  didn't  know,"  replied  Ellen. 

After  a  pause  she  said: 

"  That  Orr  girl  has  really  bought  the  Bolton  house ; 
I  suppose  you  heard  ?  It's  all  settled ;  and  she's  going 
to  begin  fixing  up  the  place  right  off.  Don't  you 
think  it's  funny  for  a  girl  like  her  to  want  a  house  all 
to  herself.  I  should  think  she'd  rather  board,  as 
long  as  she's  single." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Jim  Dodge 
coolly. 

"  You  folks'll  get  money  out  of  it ;  so  shall  we," 
Ellen  went  on.  "  Everybody's  so  excited !  I  went 
down  for  the  mail  this  afternoon  and  seemed  to  me 
'most  everybody  was  out  in  the  street  talking  it  over. 
My!  I'd  hate  to  be  her  tonight." 

"  Why?  "  asked  Fanny  shortly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Everybody  will  be  crowding 
around,  asking  questions  and  saying  things.  ...  Do 
you  think  she's  pretty,  Jim?  " 

"  Pretty?  "  echoed  the  young  man. 

He  shot  a  keen  glance  at  Ellen  Dix  from  under  half- 
closed  lids.  The  girl's  big,  black  eyes  were  fixed  full 

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upon  him;  she  was  leaning  forward,  a  suggestion  of 
timid  defiance  in  the  poise  of  her  head. 

"Well,  that  depends,"  he  said  slowly.  "No,  I 
don't  think  she's  pretty" 

Ellen  burst  into  a  sudden  trill  of  laughter. 

"  Well,  I  never !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  supposed  all 
the  men  — " 

"  But  I  do  think  she's  beautiful,"  he  finished  calmly. 
"  There's  a  difference,  you  know." 

Ellen  Dix  tossed  her  head. 

"Oh,  is  there?"  she  said  airily.  "Well,  I  don't 
even  think  she's  pretty;  do  you,  Fan?  —  with  all  that 
light  hair,  drawn  back  plain  from  her  forehead,  and 
those  big,  solemn  eyes.  But  I  guess  she  thinks  she's 
pretty,  all  right." 

"  She  doesn't  think  anything  about  herself," 
said  Jim  doggedly.  "  She  isn't  that  kind  of  a 
girl." 

Ellen  Dix  bit  a  vexed  exclamation  short. 

"  I  don't  believe  any  of  us  know  her  very  well,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause.  "  You  know  what  a  gossip  Lois 
Daggett  is?  Well,  I  met  her  and  Mrs.  Fulsom  and 
Mrs.  Whittle  coming  out  of  the  Daggetts'  house. 
They'd  been  talking  it  over;  when  they  saw  me  they 
stopped  me  to  ask  if  I'd  been  to  see  Miss  Orr,  and 
when  I  said  no,  not  yet,  but  I  was  going,  Lois  Dag 
gett  said,  *  Well,  I  do  hope  she  won't  be  quite  so  close- 
mouthed  with  you  girls.  When  I  asked  her,  real  sym 
pathizing,  who  she  was  wearing  black  for,  she  said 
she  had  lost  a  dear  friend  and  never  even  told  who  it 
was!'" 

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Jim  Dodge  threw  back  his  head  and  burst  into  a 
laugh. 

"  Served  her  right,"  he  said. 

"  You  mean  Lois  ?  " 

"You  didn't  suppose  I  meant  Miss  Orr;  did  you?" 

Jim's  voice  held  a  disdainful  note  which  brought  the 
hot  color  to  Ellen's  cheeks. 

"  I'm  not  so  stupid  as  you  seem  to  think,  Jim 
Dodge,"  she  said,  with  spirit. 

"  I  never  thought  you  were  stupid,  Ellen,"  he  re 
turned  quickly.  "  Don't  make  a  mistake  and  be  so 


now." 


Ellen  gazed  at  him  in  hurt  silence.  She  guessed  at 
his  meaning  and  it  humiliated  her  girlish  pride. 

It  was  Fanny  who  said  somewhat  impatiently :  "  I'm 
sure  I  can't  think  what  you  mean,  Jim." 

"  Well,  in  my  humble  opinion,  it  would  be  down 
right  stupid  for  you  two  girls  to  fool  yourselves  into 
disliking  Lydia  Orr.  She'd  like  to  be  friends  with 
everybody;  why  not  give  her  a  chance?  " 

Again  Ellen  did  not  reply;  and  again  it  was  Fanny 
who  spoke  the  words  that  rose  to  her  friend's  lips  un- 
uttered : 

"  I  can't  see  how  you  should  know  so  much  about 
Miss  Orr,  Jim." 

"  I  don't  myself,"  he  returned  good-humoredly. 
"  But  sometimes  a  man  can  see  through  a  woman  bet 
ter —  or  at  least  more  fair-mindedly  than  another 
woman.  You  see,"  he  added,  "there's  no  sex  jeal 
ousy  in  the  way." 

Both  girls  cried  out  in  protest  against  this. 

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It  wasn't  so,  they  declared.  He  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself!  As  for  being  jealous  of 
any  one  —  Fanny  haughtily  disclaimed  the  sug 
gestion,  with  a  bitterness  which  astonished  her 
friend. 

It  was  something  of  a  relief  to  all  three  when  the 
brilliantly  illuminated  house  and  grounds  belonging  to 
Mrs.  Solomon  Black  came  m  view.  Japanese  lan 
terns  in  lavish  abundance  had  been  strung  from  tree  to 
tree  and  outlined  the  piazza  and  the  walk  leading  to 
the  house. 

"  Doesn't  it  look  lovely !  "  cried  Ellen,  scattering  her 
vexation  to  the  winds.  "  I  never  saw  anything  so 
pretty !  " 

Inside  the  house  further  surprises  awaited  them; 
the  music  of  harp  and  violins  stole  pleasantly  through 
the  flower-scented  rooms,  which  were  softly  lighted 
with  shaded  lamps  the  like  of  which  Brookville  had 
never  seen  before. 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  arrayed  in  a  crisp  blue  taffeta, 
came  bustling  to  meet  them.  But  not  before  Fanny's 
swift  gaze  had  penetrated  the  assembled  guests.  Yes! 
there  was  Wesley  Elliot's  tall  figure.  He  was  talk 
ing  to  Mrs.  Henry  Daggett  at  the  far  end  of  the  dou 
ble  parlors. 

"  Go  right  up  stairs  and  lay  off  your  things,"  urged 
their  hostess  hospitably.  "  Ladies  to  the  right ;  gents 
to  the  left.  I'm  so  glad  you  came,  Fanny.  I'd  begun 
to  wonder — " 

The  girl's  lip  curled  haughtily.  The  slight  empha 
sis  on  the  personal  pronoun  and  the  fervid  squeeze  of 

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Mrs.  Black's  fat  hand  hurt  her  sore  heart.     But  she 
smiled  brilliantly. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Black,  I  wouldn't  have  missed 
it  for  worlds! "  she  said  coldly. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DOES  my  hair  look  decent ?"  asked  Ellen,  as 
the  two  girls  peered  into  the  mirror  together. 
"The  dew  does  take  the  curl  out  so.  It 
must  be  lovely  to  have  naturally  curly  hair,  like  yours, 
Fanny.  It  looks  all  the  prettier  for  being  damp  and 
ruffled  up." 

Fanny  was  pulling  out  the  fluffy  masses  of  curling 
brown  hair  about  her  forehead. 

"  Your  hair  looks  all  right,  Ellen,"  she  said  absent- 
mindedly. 

She  was  wondering  if  Wesley  Elliot  would  speak 
to  her. 

"  I  saw  that  Orr  girl,"  whispered  Ellen ;  "  she's  got 
on  a  white  dress,  all  lace,  and  a  black  sash.  She  does 
look  pretty,  Fanny ;  we'll  have  to  acknowledge  it." 

"  Ye-es,"  murmured  Fanny  who  was  drawing  on  a 
pair  of  fresh  white  gloves. 

"  You  aren't  going  to  wear  those  gloves  down  stairs, 
are  you,  Fan?  I  haven't  got  any." 

"  My  hands  are  all  stained  up  with  currant  jelly," 
explained  Fanny  hurriedly.  "  Your  hands  are  real 
pretty,  Ellen." 

Ellen  glanced  down  at  her  capable,  brown  hands, 
with  their  blunt  finger-tips. 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  her  hands,  Fanny  ?  " 

Fanny  shook  her  head. 


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"  Her  nails  are  cut  kind  of  pointed,  and  all  shined 
up.  And  her  hands  are  so  little  and  soft  and  white. 
I  suppose  a  man  —  do  you  think  Jim  would  notice  that 
sort  of  thing,  Fanny?" 

Fanny  snapped  the  fastenings  of  her  gloves. 

"  Let's  go  down  stairs,"  she  suggested.  "They'll 
be  wondering  what's  become  of  us." 

"Say,  Fan!" 

Ellen  Dix  caught  at  her  friend's  arm,  her  pretty 
face,  with  its  full  pouting  lips  and  brilliant  dark  eyes 
upturned. 

"Well?" 

"  Do  you  suppose  —  You  don't  think  Jim  is  mad 
at  me  for  what  I  said  about  her,  do  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  remember  you  said  anything  to  make  any 
body  mad.  Come,  let's  go  down,  Ellen." 

"  But,  Fan,  I  was  wondering  if  that  girl  —  Do  you 
know  I  —  I  kind  of  wish  she  hadn't  come  to  Brook- 
ville.  Everything  seems  —  different,  already.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Fanny?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Why  should  you  think  about 
it?  She's  here  and  there's  no  use.  I'm  going  down, 
Ellen." 

Fanny  moved  toward  the  stairs,  her  fresh  young 
beauty  heightened  by  an  air  of  dignified  reserve  which 
Ellen  Dix  had  failed  to  penetrate. 

Wesley  Elliot,  who  had  by  now  reached  the  wide 
opening  into  the  hall  in  the  course  of  his  progress 
among  the  guests,  glanced  up  as  Fanny  Dodge  swept 
the  last  step  of  the  stair  with  her  unfashionable  white 
gown. 

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"  Why,  good  evening,  Miss  Dodge,'5  he  exclaimed, 
with  commendable  presence  of  mind,  seeing  the  heart 
under  his  waistcoat  had  executed  an  uncomfortable 
pas  seul  at  sight  of  her. 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  every  appearance  of  cor 
dial  welcome,  and  after  an  instant's  hesitation  Fanny 
laid  her  gloved  ringers  in  it.  She  had  meant  to  avoid 
his  direct  gaze,  but  somehow  his  glance  had  caught 
and  held  her  own.  What  were  his  eyes  saying  to  her  ? 
She  blushed  and  trembled  under  the  soft  dark  fire  of 
them.  In  that  instant  she  appeared  so  wholly  ador 
able,  so  temptingly  sweet  that  the  young  man  felt  his 
prudent  resolves  slipping  away  from  him  one  by  one. 
Had  they  been  alone —  .  .  . 

But,  no ;  Ellen  Dix,  her  piquant,  provokingly  pretty 
face  tip-tilted  with  ardent  curiosity,  was  just  behind. 
In  another  moment  he  was  saying,  in  the  easy,  pleasant 
way  everybody  liked,  that  he  was  glad  to  see  Ellen; 
and  how  was  Mrs.  Dix,  this  evening  ?  And  why  wasn't 
she  there? 

Ellen  replied  demurely  that  it  had  been  given  out 
on  Sunday  as  a  young  people's  social;  so  her  mother 
thought  she  wasn't  included. 

They  entered  the  crowded  room,  where  Deacon 
Whittle  was  presently  heard  declaring  that  he  felt  just 
as  young  as  anybody,  so  he  "  picked  up  mother  and 
came  right  along  with  Joe."  And  Mrs.  Daggett, 
whose  placid  face  had  lighted  with  pleasure  at  sight 
of  Fanny  and  Ellen,  proclaimed  that  when  the  day 
came  for  her  to  stay  at  home  from  a  young  folks' 
social  she  hoped  they'd  bury  her,  right  off. 

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So  the  instant  —  psychological  or  otherwise  — 
passed.  But  Fanny  Dodge's  heavy  heart  was  beating 
hopefully  once  more. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  him  alone,'*  she  was  thinking. 
"  He  would  explain  everything." 

Her  thoughts  flew  onward  to  the  moment  when  she 
would  come  down  stairs  once  more,  cloaked  for  de 
parture.  Perhaps  Wesley  —  she  ventured  to  call  him 
Wesley  in  her  joyously  confused  thoughts  —  perhaps 
Wesley  would  walk  home  with  her  as  on  other  occa 
sions  not  long  past.  Jim,  she  reflected,  could  go  with 
Ellen. 

Then  all  at  once  she  came  upon  Lydia  Orr,  in  her 
simple  white  dress,  made  with  an  elegant  simplicity 
which  convicted  every  girl  in  the  room  of  dowdiness. 
She  was  talking  with  Judge  Fulsom,  who  was  slowly 
consuming  a  huge  saucer  of  ice-cream,  with  every  ap 
pearance  of  enjoyment. 

"  As  I  understand  it,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  wish 
to  employ  Brookville  talent  exclusively  in  repairing 
your  house,"  Fanny  heard  him  saying,  between  smack 
ing  mouth  fuls. 

And  Lydia  Orr  replied,  "  Yes,  if  you  please,  I  do 
want  everything  to  be  done  here.  There  are  people 
who  can,  aren't  there?  " 

When  she  saw  that  Fanny  had  paused  and  was  gaz 
ing  at  her  doubtfully,  her  hand  went  out  with  a  smile, 
wistful  and  timid  and  sincere,  all  at  once.  There  was 
something  so  appealing  in  the  girl's  upturned  face,  an 
honesty  of  purpose  so  crystal -clear  in  her  lovely  eyes, 
that  Fanny,  still  confused  and  uncertain  whether  to  be 

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.-Lin-n-i —       '       •--  '     "  '" 

happy  or  not,  was  irresistibly  drawn  to  her.  She 
thought  for  a  fleeting  instant  she  would  like  to  take 
Lydia  Orr  away  to  some  dim  secluded  spot  and  there 
pour  out  her  heart.  The  next  minute  she  was  ready  to 
laugh  at  herself  for  entertaining  so  absurd  an  idea. 
She  glanced  down  at  Lydia's  ungloved  hands,  which 
Ellen  Dix  had  just  described,  and  reflected  soberly  that 
Wesley  Elliot  sat  at  table  with  those  dainty  pink-tipped 
fingers  three  times  each  day.  She  had  not  answered 
Ellen's  foolish  little  questions;  but  now  she  felt  sure 
that  any  man,  possessed  of  his  normal  faculties,  could 
hardly  fail  to  become  aware  of  Lydia  Orr's  delicate 
beauty. 

Fanny  compelled  herself  to  gaze  with  unprejudiced 
eyes  at  the  fair  transparent  skin,  with  the  warm  color 
coming  and  going  beneath  it,  at  the  masses  of  blond 
hair  drawn  softly  back  from  the  high  round  forehead, 
at  the  large  blue  eyes  beneath  the  long  sweep  of  darker 
lashes,  at  the  exquisite  curve  of  the  lips  and  the  firmly 
modeled  chin.  Yes ;  Jim  had  seen  truly ;  the  ordinary 
adjective  "pretty" — applicable  alike  to  a  length  of 
ribbon,  a  gown,  or  a  girl  of  the  commoner  type  — 
could  not  be  applied  to  Lydia  Orr.  She  was  beautiful 
to  the  discerning  eye,  and  Fanny  unwillingly  admitted 
it. 

Lydia  Orr,  unabashed  by  the  girl's  frank  inspection, 
returned  her  gaze  with  beaming  friendliness. 

"  Did  you  know  I'd  bought  a  house?"  she  asked. 
"  It's  old  and  needs  a  lot  of  repairing;  so  I  was  just 
asking  Judge  Fulsom  — " 

"  Deacon  Amos  Whittle  is,  so  to  say,  a  contractor," 

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said  the  Judge  ponderously,  "  and  so,  in  a  way,  am  I." 

"  A  contractor?  "  puzzled  Lydia.     "  Yes ;  but  I  — " 

"If  you'll  just  give  over  everything  into  our  hands 
connected  with  putting  the  old  place  into  A-number-one 
shape,  I  think  you'll  find  you  can  dismiss  the  whole 
matter  from  your  mind.  In  two  months'  time,  my 
dear  young  lady,  we'll  guarantee  to  pass  the  house  over 
to  you  in  apple-pie  order,  good  as  new,  if  not  better. 
.  .  .  Yes,  indeed;  better!  " 

The  Judge  eyed  his  empty  saucer  regretfully. 

"  That's  the  best  ice  cream  — "  he  added  with  total 
irrelevance.  "  Have  some,  won't  you?  I  hear  they're 
passing  it  out  free  and  permiscuous  in  the  back  room." 

"  I  think  we  should  like  some  cream,  if  you  please, 
Judge  Fulsom,"  said  Lydia,  "  if  you'll  keep  us  com 
pany." 

"  Oh,  I'll  keep  company  with  you,  as  far  as  straw 
berry  ice  cream's  concerned,"  chuckled  the  Judge,  his 
big  bulk  shaking  with  humor.  "  But  I  see  Mis'  Ful 
som  over  there;  she's  got  her  weather  eye  on  us. 
Now,  watch  me  skeedaddle  for  that  cream!  Pink, 
white  or  brown,  Miss  Orr;  or,  all  three  mixed? 
There's  a  young  fellow  out  there  in  charge  of  the 
freezers  that  sure  is  a  wonder.  How  about  you, 
Fanny?" 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other  with  a  smile  of 
understanding  as  the  big  figure  of  the  Judge  moved 
ponderously  away. 

"  We  never  had  ice  cream  before  at  a  church  socia 
ble,"  said  Fanny.  "  And  I  didn't  know  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black  had  so  many  lanterns.  Did  you  buy  all  this?  " 

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Her  gesture  seemed  to  include  the  shaded  lamps,  the 
masses  of  flowers  and  trailing  vines,  the  gay  strains  of 
music,  and  the  plentiful  refreshments  which  nearly 
every  one  was  enjoying. 

"  It's  just  like  a  regular  party,"  she  added.  "  We're 
not  used  to  such  things  in  Brookville." 

"  Do  you  like  it?  "  Lydia  asked,  doubtfully. 

"  Why,  of  course,"  returned  Fanny,  the  color  rising 
swiftly  to  her  face. 

She  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Wesley  Elliot  edging 
his  way  past  a  group  of  the  younger  boys  and  girls, 
mad  with  the  revelry  of  unlimited  cake  and  ice  cream. 
He  was  coming  directly  toward  their  corner ;  his  eyes, 
alas!  fixed  upon  the  stranger  in  their  midst.  Un 
consciously  Fanny  sighed  deeply;  the  corners  of  her 
smiling  lips  drooped.  She  appeared  all  at  once  like  a 
lovely  rose  which  some  one  has  worn  for  an  hour  and 
cast  aside. 

"  It's  such  a  little  thing  to  do,"  murmured  Lydia. 

Then,  before  Fanny  was  aware  of  her  intention,  she 
had  slipped  away.  At  the  same  moment  Judge  Ful- 
som  made  his  appearance,  elbowing  his  smiling  way 
through  the  crowd,  a  brimming  saucer  of  vari-colored 
ice  cream  in  each  hand. 

"  Here  we  are !  "  he  announced  cheerfully.  "  Had 
to  get  a  habeas  corpus  on  this  ice  cream,  though. 
Why,  what's  become  of  Miss  Orr?  Gone  with  a 
handsomer  man  —  eh  ?  " 

He  stared  humorously  at  the  minister. 

"  Twa'n't  you,  dominie ;  seein'  you're  here.  Had 
any  ice  cream  yet?  No  harm  done,  if  you  have. 
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Seems  to  be  a  plenty.  Take  this,  parson,  and  I'll 
replevin  another  plate  for  myself  and  one  for  Miss 
Orr.  Won't  be  gone  more'n  another  hour." 

Fanny,  piteously  tongue-tied  in  the  presence  of  the 
man  she  loved,  glanced  up  at  Wesley  Elliot  with  a 
timidity  she  had  never  before  felt  in  his  company. 
His  eyes  under  close-drawn  brows  were  searching  the 
crowd.  Fanny  divined  that  she  was  not  in  his 
thoughts. 

"If  you  are  looking  for  Miss  Orr,"  she  said  dis 
tinctly,  "  I  think  she  has  gone  out  in  the  kitchen.  I 
saw  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  beckon  to  her." 

The  minister  glanced  down  at  her ;  his  rash  impulse 
of  an  hour  back  was  already  forgotten. 

"  Don't  you  think  it's  awfully  warm  in  here?  "  con 
tinued  Fanny. 

A  sudden  desperate  desire  had  assailed  her;  she 
must  —  she  would  compel  him  to  some  sort  of  an  ex 
planation. 

"  It's  a  warm  evening,"  commented  the  minister. 
"But  why  not  eat  your  cream?  You'll  find  it  will 
cool  you  off." 

"I  —  I  don't  care  much  for  ice  cream,"  said  Fanny, 
in  a  low  tremulous  voice. 

She  gazed  at  him,  her  dark  eyes  brimming  with 
eager  questions. 

"  I  was  wondering  if  we  couldn't  —  it's  pleasant  out 
in  the  yard  — " 

"If  you'll  excuse  me  for  just  a  moment,  Miss 
Dodge,"  Wesley  Elliot's  tone  was  blandly  courteous 
— "I'll  try  and  find  you  a  chair.  They  appear  to  be 

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scarce  articles;  I  believe  the  ladies  removed  most  of 
them  to  the  rear  of  the  house.  Pardon  me  — " 

He  set  down  his  plate  of  ice  cream  on  the  top  shelf 
of  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  what-not,  thereby  deranging 
a  careful  group  of  sea-shells  and  daguerreotypes,  and 
walked  quickly  away. 

Fanny's  face  flushed  to  a  painful  crimson;  then  as 
suddenly  paled.  She  was  a  proud  girl,  accustomed  to 
love  and  admiration  since  early  childhood,  when  she 
had  queened  it  over  her  playmates  because  her  yellow 
curls  were  longer  than  theirs,  her  cheeks  pinker,  her 
eyes  brighter  and  her  slim,  strong  body  taller.  Fanny 
had  never  been  compelled  to  stoop  from  her  grace 
ful  height  to  secure  masculine  attention.  It  had  been 
hers  by  a  sort  of  divine  right.  She  had  not  been  at  all 
surprised  when  the  handsome  young  minister  had 
looked  at  her  twice,  thrice,  to  every  other  girl's  once, 
nor  when  he  had  singled  her  out  from  the  others  in 
the  various  social  events  of  the  country  side. 

Fanny  had  long  ago  resolved,  in  the  secret  of  her 
own  heart,  that  she  would  never,  never  become  the 
hard-worked  wife  of  a  plodding  farmer.  Somewhere 
in  the  world  —  riding  toward  her  on  the  steed  of  his 
passionate  desire  —  was  the  fairy  prince ;  her  prince, 
coming  to  lift  her  out  from  the  sordid  commonplace  of 
life  in  Brookville.  Almost  from  the  very  first  she  had 
recognized  Wesley  Elliot  as  her  deliverer. 

Once  he  had  said  to  her :  "  I  have  a  strange  feeling 
that  I  have  known  you  always."  She  had  cherished 
the  saying  in  her  heart,  hoping  —  believing  that  it 
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not  at  all  aware  that  this  pretty  sentiment  is  as  old  as 
the  race  and  the  merest  banality  on  the  masculine 
tongue,  signifying:  "At  this  moment  I  am  drawn  to 
you,  as  to  no  other  woman;  but  an  hour  hence  it  may 
be  otherwise."  .  .  .  How  else  may  man,  as  yet  im 
perfectly  monogamous,  find  the  mate  for  whom  he  is 
ever  ardently  questing?  In  this  woman  he  finds  the 
trick  of  a  lifted  lash,  or  a  shadowy  dimple  in  the 
melting  rose  of  her  cheek.  In  another,  the  stately 
curve  of  neck  and  shoulder  and  the  somber  fire  of 
dark  eyes  draws  his  roving  gaze;  in  a  third,  there  is 
a  soft,  adorable  prettiness,  like  that  of  a  baby.  He 
has  always  known  them  —  all.  And  thus  it  is,  that 
love  comes  and  goes  unbidden,  like  the  wind  which 
blows  where  it  listeth ;  and  woman,  hearing  the  sound 
thereof,  cannot  tell  whence  it  cometh  nor  whither  it 
goeth. 

In  this  particular  instance  Wesley  Elliot  had  not 
chosen  to  examine  the  secret  movements  of  his  own 
mind.  Baldly  speaking,  he  had  cherished  a  fleeting 
fancy  for  Fanny  Dodge,  a  sort  of  love  in  idleness, 
which  comes  to  a  man  like  the  delicate,  floating  seeds 
of  the  parasite  orchid,  capable  indeed  of  exquisite 
blossoming;  but  deadly  to  the  tree  upon  which  it  fas 
tens.  He  had  resolved  to  free  himself.  It  was  a  sen 
sible  resolve.  He  was  glad  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  it  before  it  was  too  late.  Upon  the  possible  dis 
comfiture  of  Fanny  Dodge  he  bestowed  but  a  sin 
gle  thought:  She  would  get  over  it.  "It"  mean 
ing  a  quite  pardonable  fancy  —  he  refused  to  give  it  a 
more  specific  name  —  for  himself.  To  the  unvoiced 

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opinions  of  Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  Mrs.  Deacon  Whit 
tle,  Ellen  Dix,  Mrs.  Abby  Daggett  and  all  the  other 
women  of  his  parish  he  was  wholly  indifferent.  Men, 
he  was  glad  to  remember,  never  bothered  their  heads 
about  another  man's  love  affairs.  .  .  . 

The  chairs  from  the  sitting  room  had  been  removed 
to  the  yard,  where  they  were  grouped  about  small  tables 
adequately  illuminated  by  the  moon  and  numerous  Jap 
anese  lanterns.  Every  second  chair  appeared  to  be 
filled  by  a  giggling,  pink-cheeked  girl ;  the  others  being 
suitably  occupied  by  youths  of  the  opposite  sex  — 
all  pleasantly  occupied.  The  minister  conscientiously 
searched  for  the  chair  he  had  promised  to  fetch  to 
Fanny  Dodge;  but  it  never  once  occurred  to  him  to 
bring  Fanny  out  to  the  cool  loveliness  of  mingled  moon 
and  lantern-light.  There  was  no  unoccupied  chair, 
as  he  quickly  discovered;  but  he  came  presently  upon 
Lydia  Orr,  apparently  doing  nothing  at  all.  She  was 
standing  near  Mrs.  Black's  boundary  picket  fence, 
shielded  from  the  observation  of  the  joyous  groups 
about  the  little  tables  by  the  down-dropping  branches 
of  an  apple-tree. 

"  I  was  looking  for  you !  "  said  Wesley  Elliot. 

It  was  the  truth;  but  it  surprised  him  nevertheless. 
He  supposed  he  had  been  looking  for  a  chair. 

"  Were  you?  "  said  Lydia,  smiling. 

She  moved  a  little  away  from  him. 

"  I  must  go  in,"  she  murmured. 

"Why  must  you?  It's  delightful  out  here  —  so 
cool  and — " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  the  others  —  Why  not  bring 

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Miss  Dodge  out  of  that  hot  room?  I  thought  she 
looked  tired." 

"  I  didn't  notice,"  he  said.  .  .  .  "  Just  look  at  that 
flock  of  little  white  clouds  up  there  with  the  moon 
shining  through  them !  " 

Lydia  glided  away  over  the  soft  grass. 

"  I've  been  looking  at  them  for  a  long  time/'  she 
said  gently.  "  I  must  go  now  and  help  cut  more 
cake." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  disgust. 

"  They're  fairly  stuffing,"  he  complained.  "  And, 
anyway,  there  are  plenty  of  women  to  attend  to  all 
that.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Miss  Orr." 

His  tone  was  authoritative. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him. 

"  To  talk  to  me  ?  "  she  echoed. 

"  Yes ;  come  back  —  for  just  a  minute.  I  know 
what  you're  thinking:  that  it's  my  duty  to  be  talking 
to  parishioners.  Well,  I've  been  doing  that  all  the 
evening.  I  think  I'm  entitled  to  a  moment  of  relaxa 
tion;  don't  you?  " 

"  I'm  a  parishioner,"  she  reminded  him. 

"  So  you  are,"  he  agreed  joyously.  "  And  I  haven't 
had  a  word  with  you  this  evening,  so  far;  so  you  see 
it's  my  duty  to  talk  to  you;  and  it's  your  duty  to  lis 
ten." 

"Well?"  she  murmured. 

Her  face  upturned  to  his  in  the  moonlight  wore  the 
austere  loveliness  of  a  saint's. 

"  I  wish  you'd  tell  me  something,"  he  said,  his  fine 
dark  eyes  taking  in  every  detail  of  delicate  tint  and 

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Her  face,  upturned  to  his  in  the  moonlight,  wore  the  austere 
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outline.  "  Do  you  know  it  all  seems  very  strange  and 
unusual  to  me  —  your  coming  to  Brookville  the  way 
you  did,  and  doing  so  much  to  —  to  make  the  people 
here  happy." 

She  drew  a  deep,  sighing  breath. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  isn't  going  to  be  easy,"  she  said 
slowly.  "  I  thought  it  would  be ;  but  — " 

"  Then  you  came  with  that  intention,"  he  inferred 
quickly.  "  You  meant  to  do  it  from  the  beginning. 
But  just  what  was  the  beginning?  What  ever  at 
tracted  your  attention  to  this  forlorn  little  place  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  her  eyes  downcast. 
Then  she  smiled. 

"  I  might  ask  you  the  same  question,"  she  said  at 
last.  "  Why  did  you  come  to  Brookville,  Mr.  El 
liot?" 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Oh,  that  is  easily  explained.  I  had  a  call  to 
Brookville." 

"  So  did  I,"  she  murmured.  "  Yes ;  I  think  that  was 
the  reason  —  if  there  must  be  a  reason." 

"  There  is  always  a  reason  for  everything,"  he  urged. 
"  But  you  didn't  understand  me.  Do  you  know  I 
couldn't  say  this  to  another  soul  in  Brookville ;  but  I'm 
going  to  tell  you :  I  wanted  to  live  and  work  in  a  big 
city,  and  I  tried  to  find  a  church  — " 

"  Yes ;  I  know,"  she  said,  unexpectedly.  "  One  can't 
always  go  where  one  wishes  to  go,  just  at  first.  Things 
turn  out  that  way,  sometimes." 

"  They  seemed  to  want  me  here  in  Brookville,"  he 
said,  with  some  bitterness.  "  It  was  a  last  resort,  for 

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me.  I  might  have  taken  a  position  in  a  school;  but  I 
couldn't  bring  myself  to  that.  I'd  dreamed  of  preach 
ing —  to  big  audiences." 

She  smiled  at  him,  with  a  gentle  sidewise  motion  of 
the  head. 

"  God  lets  us  do  things,  if  we  want  to  hard  enough," 
she  told  him  quite  simply. 

"  Do  you  believe  that?  "  he  cried.  "  Perhaps  you'll 
think  it  strange  for  me  to  ask;  but  do  you?  " 

A  great  wave  of  emotion  seemed  to  pass  over  her 
quiet  face.  He  saw  it  alter  strangely  under  his  gaze. 
For  an  instant  she  stood  transfigured ;  smiling,  without 
word  or  movement.  Then  the  inward  light  subsided. 
She  was  only  an  ordinary  young  woman,  once  more, 
upon  whom  one  might  bestow  an  indulgent  smile  — 
so  simple,  even  childlike  she  was,  in  her  unaffected 
modesty. 

"  I  really  must  go  in,"  she  said  apologetically,  "  and 
help  them  cut  the  cake." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JIM  DODGE  had  been  hoeing  potatoes  all  day. 
It  was  hard,  monotonous  work,  and  he  secretly 
detested  it.  But  the  hunting  season  was  far 
away,  and  the  growing  potatoes  were  grievously  beset 
by  weeds;  so  he  had  cut  and  thrust  with  his  sharp- 
bladed  hoe  from  early  morning  till  the  sun  burned  the 
crest  of  the  great  high-shouldered  hill  which  appeared 
to  close  in  the  valley  like  a  rampart,  off  Grenoble  way. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  brawling  stream  which  gave 
Brookville  its  name  successfully  skirted  the  hill  by  a 
narrow  margin  which  likewise  afforded  space  for  the 
state  road. 

But  the  young  man  was  not  considering  either  the 
geographical  contours  of  the  country  at  large  or  the  re 
freshed  and  renovated  potato  field,  with  its  serried 
ranks  of  low-growing  plants,  as  he  tramped  heavily 
crosslots  toward  the  house.  At  noon,  when  he  came 
in  to  dinner,  in  response  to  the  wideflung  summons  of 
the  tin  horn  which  hung  by  the  back  door,  he  had 
found  the  two  women  of  his  household  in  a  pleasurable 
state  of  excitement. 

"  We've  got  our  share,  Jim ! "  proclaimed  Mrs. 
Dodge,  a  bright  red  spot  glowing  on  either  thin  cheek. 
"  See!  here's  the  check;  it  came  in  the  mail  this  morn 
ing." 

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And  she  spread  a  crackling  bit  of  paper  under  her 
son's  eyes. 

"  I  was  some  surprised  to  get  it  so  soon,"  she  added. 
"  Folks  ain't  generally  in  any  great  hurry  to  part  with 
their  money.  But  they  do  say  Miss  Orr  paid  right 
down  for  the  place  —  never  even  asked  'em  for  any 
sort  of  terms;  and  th'  land  knows  they'd  have  been 
glad  to  given  them  to  her,  or  to  anybody  that  had 
bought  the  place  these  dozen  years  back.  Likely  she 
didn't  know  that." 

Jim  scowled  at  the  check. 

"How  much  did  she  pay  for  the  place?"  he  de 
manded.  "  It  must  have  been  a  lot  more  than  it  was 
worth,  judging  from  this." 

"I  don't  know,"  Mrs.  Dodge  replied.  "And  I 
dunno  as  I  care  particularly,  as  long's  we've  got  our 
share  of  it." 

She  was  swaying  back  and  forth  in  a  squeaky 
old  rocking-chair,  the  check  clasped  in  both  thin 
hands. 

"  Shall  we  bank  it,  children ;  or  draw  it  all  out  in 
cash  ?  Fanny  needs  new  clothes ;  so  do  you,  Jim.  And 
I've  got  to  have  a  new  carpet,  or  something,  for  the 
parlor.  Those  skins  of  wild  animals  you  brought  in 
are  all  right,  Jim,  if  one  can't  get  anything  better.  I 
suppose  we'd  ought  to  be  prudent  and  saving;  but  I 
declare  we  haven't  had  any  money  to  speak  of,  for  so 
long-" 

Mrs.  Dodge's  faded  eyes  were  glowing  with  joy; 
she  spread  the  check  upon  her  lap  and  gazed  at  it  smil 
ingly. 

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"  I  declare  it's  the  biggest  surprise  I've  had  in  all  my 
life!" 

"  Let's  spend  every  cent  of  it,"  proposed  Fanny  reck 
lessly.  "  We  didn't  know  we  were  going  to  have  it. 
We  can  scrub  along  afterward  the  same  as  we  always 
have.  Let's  divide  it  into  four  parts:  one  for  the 
house  —  to  fix  it  up  —  and  one  for  each  of  us,  to  spend 
any  way  we  like.  What  do  you  say,  Jim?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle  would 
furnish  up  her  best  parlor  something  elegant,"  sur 
mised  Mrs.  Dodge.  "  She's  always  said  she  was  goin' 
to  have  gilt  paper  and  marble  tops  and  electric  blue 
plush  upholstered  furniture.  I  guess  that'll  be  the  last 
fair  we'll  ever  have  in  that  house.  She  wouldn't 
have  everybody  trampin'  over  her  flowered  Body-Brus 
sels.  I  suppose  we  might  buy  some  plush  furniture; 
but  I  don't  know  as  I'd  care  for  electric  blue.  What 
do  you  think,  son?  " 

Jim  Dodge  sat  sprawled  out  in  his  chair  before  the 
half-set  table.  At  this  picture  of  magnificence,  about 
to  be  realized  in  the  abode  of  Deacon  Amos  Whittle, 
he  gave  vent  to  an  inarticulate  growl. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Jim?"  shrilled  his 
mother,  whose  perpetually  jangled  nerves  were  cap 
able  of  strange  dissonances.  "  Anybody 'd  suppose 
you  wasn't  pleased  at  having  the  old  Bolton  place  sold 
at  last,  and  a  little  bit  of  all  that's  been  owing  to  us 
since  before  your  poor  father  died,  paid  off.  My!  If 
we  was  to  have  all  that  was  coming  to  us  by  rights,  with 
the  interest  money  — " 

"  I'm  hungry  and  tired,  mother,  and  I  want  my  din- 

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ner,"  said  Jim  brusquely.  "  That  check  won't  hoe 
the  potatoes;  so  I  guess  I'll  have  to  do  it,  same  as 
usual." 

"  For  pity  sake,  Fanny ! "  cried  his  mother,  "  did 
you  put  the  vegetables  over  to  boil?  I  ain't  thought 
of  anything  since  this  check  came." 

It  appeared  that  Fanny  had  been  less  forget 
ful. 

After  his  belated  dinner,  Jim  had  gone  back  to  his 
potatoes,  leaving  his  mother  and  sister  deep  in  discus 
sion  over  the  comparative  virtues  of  Nottingham  lace 
and  plain  muslin,  made  up  with  ruffles,  for  parlor  cur 
tains. 

"  I  really  believe  I'd  rather  spend  more  on  the  house 
than  on  clo'es  at  my  age,"  he  heard  his  mother  saying, 
happily,  as  he  strode  away. 

All  during  the  afternoon,  to  the  clink  of  myriad 
small  stones  against  the  busy  blade  of  his  hoe,  Jim 
thought  about  Lydia  Orr.  He  could  not  help  seeing 
that  it  was  to  Lydia  he  owed  the  prospect  of  a  much 
needed  suit  of  clothes.  It  would  be  Lydia  who  hung 
curtains,  of  whatever  sort,  in  their  shabby  best  room. 
And  no  other  than  Lydia  was  to  furnish  Mrs.  Whittle's 
empty  parlor.  She  had  already  given  the  minister  a 
new  long-tailed  coat,  as  Jim  chose  to  characterize  the 
ministerial  black.  His  cheeks  burned  under  the  slant 
ing  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  with  something  deeper 
than  an  added  coat  of  tan.  Why  should  Lydia  Orr 
—  that  slip  of  a  girl,  with  the  eyes  of  a  baby,  or  a  saint 
—  do  all  this?  Jim  found  himself  unable  to  believe 
that  she  really  wanted  the  Bolton  place.  Why,  the 

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house  was  an  uninhabitable  ruin !  '  It  would  cost  thou 
sands  of  dollars  to  rebuild  it. 

He  set  his  jaw  savagely  as  he  recalled  his  late  con 
versation  with  Deacon  Whittle.  "  The  cheating  old 
skinflint,"  as  he  mentally  termed  that  worthy  pillar  of 
the  church,  had,  he  was  sure,  bamboozled  the  girl  into 
buying  a  well-nigh  worthless  property,  at  a  scandalous 
price.  It  was  a  shame!  He,  Jim  Dodge,  even  now 
burned  with  the  shame  of  it.  He  pondered  briefly  the 
possibilities  of  taking  from  his  mother  the  check,  which 
represented  the  pro  rata  share  of  the  Dodge  estate,  and 
returning  it  to  Lydia  Orr.  Reluctantly  he  abandoned 
this  quixotic  scheme.  The  swindle  —  for  as  such  he 
chose  to  view  it  —  had  already  been  accomplished. 
Other  people  would  not  return  their  checks.  On 
the  contrary,  there  would  be  new  and  fertile  schemes 
set  on  foot  to  part  the  unworldly  stranger  and  her 
money. 

He  flung  down  his  hoe  in  disgust  and  straightened 
his  aching  shoulders.  The  whole  sordid  transaction 
put  him  in  mind  of  the  greedy  onslaught  of  a  horde  of 
hungry  ants  on  a  beautiful,  defenseless  flower,  its  torn 
corolla  exuding  sweetness.  .  .  .  And  there  must  be 
some  sort  of  reason  behind  it.  Why  had  Lydia  Orr 
come  to  Brookville? 

And  here,  unwittingly,  Jim's  blind  conjectures  fol 
lowed  those  of  Wesley  Elliot.  He  had  told  Lydia  Orr 
he  meant  to  call  upon  her.  That  he  had  not  yet  ac 
complished  his  purpose  had  been  due  to  the  watchful 
ness  of  Mrs.  Solomon  Black.  On  the  two  occasions 
when  he  had  rung  Mrs.  Black's  front  door-bell,  that 

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lady  herself  had  appeared  in  response  to  its  summons. 
On  both  occasions  she  had  informed  Mr.  Dodge  tartly 
that  Miss  Orr  wasn't  at  home. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  second  disappointment  he  had 
offered  to  await  the  young  lady's  home-coming. 

"  There  ain't  no  use  of  that,  Jim,"  Mrs.  Black  had 
assured  him.  "  Miss  Orr's  gone  t'  Boston  to  stay  two 
days." 

Then  she  had  unlatched  her  close-shut  lips  to  add: 
"  She  goes  there  frequent,  on  business." 

Her  eyes  appeared  to  inform  him  further  that  Miss 
Orr's  business,  of  whatever  nature,  was  none  of  his 
business  and  never  would  be. 

"  That  old  girl  is  down  on  me  for  some  reason  or 
other,"  he  told  himself  ruefully,  as  he  walked  away  for 
the  second  time.  But  he  was  none  the  less  resolved  to 
pursue  his  hopefully  nascent  friendship  with  Lydia  Orr. 

He  was  thinking  of  her  vaguely  as  he  walked  to 
ward  the  house  which  had  been  his  father's,  and  where 
he  and  Fanny  had  been  born.  It  was  little  and  low 
and  old,  as  he  viewed  it  indifferently  in  the  fading  light 
of  the  sunset  sky.  Its  walls  had  needed  painting  so 
long,  that  for  years  nobody  had  even  mentioned  the 
subject.  Its  picturesquely  mossy  roof  leaked.  But  a 
leaky  roof  was  a  commonplace  in  Brookville.  It  was 
customary  to  set  rusty  tin  pans,  their  holes  stopped 
with  rags,  under  such  spots  as  actually  let  in  water; 
the  emptying  of  the  pans  being  a  regular  household 
"  chore."  Somehow,  he  found  himself  disliking  to 
enter;  his  mother  and  Fanny  would  still  be  talking 
about  the  disposition  of  Lydia  Orr's  money.  To  his 

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relief  he  found  his  sister  alone  in  the  kitchen,  which 
served  as  a  general  living  room.  The  small  square 
table  neatly  spread  for  two  stood  against  the  wall; 
Fanny  was  standing  by  the  window,  her  face  close  to 
the  pane,  and  apparently  intent  upon  the  prospect  with 
out,  which  comprised  a  grassy  stretch  of  yard  flanked 
by  a  dull  rampart  of  over-grown  lilac  bushes. 

"  Where's  mother  ?  "  inquired  Jim,  as  he  hung  his 
hat  on  the  accustomed  nail. 

"  She  went  down  to  the  village,"  said  Fanny,  turn 
ing  her  back  on  the  window  with  suspicious  haste. 
"  There  was  a  meeting  of  the  sewing  society  at  Mrs. 
Daggett's." 

"  Good  Lord !  "  exclaimed  Jim.  "  What  an  oppor 
tunity  !  " 

"  Opportunity?  "  echoed  Fanny  vaguely. 

"  Yes ;  for  talking  it  over.  Can't  you  imagine  the 
clack  of  tongues ;  the  '  I  says  to  her/  and  '  she  told  me,' 
and  '  what  do  you  think ! '  " 

"  Don't  be  sarcastic  and  disagreeable,  Jim,"  advised 
Fanny,  with  some  heat.  "  When  you  think  of  it,  it  is 
a  wonder  —  that  girl  coming  here  the  way  she  did ; 
buying  out  the  fair,  just  as  everybody  was  discouraged 
over  it.  And  now  — " 

"  How  do  you  explain  it,  Fan?  "  asked  her  brother. 

"  Explain  it  ?  I  can't  explain  it.  Nobody  seems  to 
know  anything  about  her,  except  that  she's  from  Bos 
ton  and  seems  to  have  heaps  of  money." 

Jim  was  wiping  his  hands  on  the  roller-towel  behind 
the  door. 

"  I  had  a  chance  to  annex  a  little  more  of  Miss  Orr's 
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money  today,"  he  observed  grimly.  "  But  I  haven't 
made  up  my  mind  yet  whether  to  do  it,  or  not." 

Fanny  laughed  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  If  you  don't,  somebody  else  will,"  she  replied.  "  It 
was  Deacon  Whittle,  wasn't  it?  He  stopped  at  the 
house  this  afternoon  and  wanted  to  know  where  to  find 
you." 

"  They're  going  right  to  work  on  the  old  place,  and 
there's  plenty  to  do  for  everybody,  including  yours 
truly,  at  four  dollars  a  day." 

"  What  sort  of  work?  "  inquired  Fanny. 

"All  sorts:  pulling  down  and  building  up;  clearing 
away  and  replanting.  The  place  is  a  jungle,  you  know. 
But  four  dollars  a  day !  It's  like  taking  candy  from  a 
baby." 

"  It  sounds  like  a  great  deal,"  said  the  girl.  "  But 
why  shouldn't  you  do  it?  " 

Jim  laughed. 

"  Why,  indeed  ?  I  might  earn  enough  to  put  a  shin 
gle  or  two  on  our  own  roof.  It  looks  like  honest 
money;  but — " 

Fanny  was  busy  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the 
supper  table. 

"  Mother's  going  to  stop  for  tea  at  Mrs.  Daggett's, 
and  go  to  prayer  meeting  afterward,"  she  said.  "  We 
may  as  well  eat." 

The  two  sat  down,  facing  each  other. 

"  What  did  you  mean,  Jim  ?  "  asked  Fanny,  as  she 
passed  the  bread  plate  to  her  brother.  "  You  said,  '  It 
looks  like  honest  money ;  but  — ' ' 

"I  guess  I'm  a  fool,"  he  grumbled;  "but  there's 

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something  about  the  whole  business  I  don't  like.  .  .  . 
Have  some  of  this  apple  sauce,  Fan?  " 

The  girl  passed  her  plate  for  a  spoonful  of  the  thick 
compound,  and  in  return  shoved  the  home-dried  beef 
toward  her  brother. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  queer  about  it,"  she  replied 
dully.  "  I  suppose  a  person  with  money  might  come 
to  Brookville  and  want  to  buy  a  house.  The  old  Bol- 
ton  place  used  to  be  beautiful,  mother  says.  I  suppose 
it  can  be  again.  And  if  she  chooses  to  spend  her 
money  that  way —  " 

"  That's  just  the  point  I  can't  see :  why  on  earth 
should  she  want  to  saddle  herself  with  a  proposition 
like  that?" 

Fanny's  mute  lips  trembled.  She  was  thinking  she 
knew  very  well  why  Lydia  Orr  had  chosen  to  come  to 
Brookville :  in  some  way  unknown  to  Fanny,  Miss  Orr 
had  chanced  to  meet  the  incomparable  Wesley  Elliot, 
and  had  straightway  set  her  affections  upon  him. 
Fanny  had  been  thinking  it  over,  ever  since  the  night 
of  the  social  at  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's.  Up  to  the  mo 
ment  when  Wesley  —  she  couldn't  help  calling  him 
Wesley  still  —  had  left  her,  on  pretense  of  fetching  a 
chair,  she  had  instantly  divined  that  it  was  a  pretense, 
and  of  course  he  had  not  returned.  Her  cheeks  tingled 
hotly  as  she  recalled  the  way  in  which  Joyce  Fulsom 
had  remarked  the  plate  of  melting  ice  cream  on  the  top 
shelf  of  Mrs.  Black's  what-not: 

"  I  guess  Mr.  Elliot  forgot  his  cream,"  the  girl  had 
said,  with  a  spark  of  malice.     "  I  saw  him  out  in  the 
yard  awhile  ago  talking  to  that  Miss  Orr." 
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Fanny  had  humiliated  herself  still  further  by  pre 
tending  she  didn't  know  it  was  the  minister  who  had 
left  his  ice  cream  to  dissolve  in  a  pink  and  brown  pud 
dle  of  sweetness.  Whereat  Joyce  Fulsom  had  giggled 
disagreeably. 

"  Better  keep  your  eye  on  him,  Fan,"  she  had  advised. 

Of  course  she  couldn't  speak  of  this  to  Jim;  but  it 
was  all  plain  enough  to  her. 

"  I'm  going  down  to  the  village  for  awhile,  Fan," 
her  brother  said,  as  he  arose  from  the  table.  But  he 
did  not,  as  was  his  custom,  invite  her  to  accompany 
him. 

After  Jim  had  gone,  Fanny  washed  the  dishes  with 
mechanical  swiftness.  Her  mother  had  asked  her  if 
she  would  come  to  prayer  meeting,  and  walk  home  with 
her  afterwards.  Not  that  Mrs.  Dodge  was  timid;  the 
neighborhood  of  Brookville  had  never  been  haunted 
after  nightfall  by  anything  more  dangerous  than  whip- 
poorwills  and  frogs.  A  plaintive  chorus  of  night 
sounds  greeted  the  girl,  as  she  stepped  out  into  the 
darkness.  How  sweet  the  honeysuckle  and  late  roses 
smelled  under  the  dew !  Fanny  walked  slowly  across 
the  yard  to  the  old  summer-house,  where  the  minister 
had  asked  her  to  call  him  Wesley,  and  sat  down.  It 
was  very  dark  under  the  thick-growing  vines,  and  after 
awhile  tranquillity  of  a  sort  stole  over  the  girl's  spirit. 
She  gazed  out  into  the  dim  spaces  beyond  the  summer- 
house  and  thought,  with  a  curious  detachment,  of  all 
that  had  happened.  It  was  as  if  she  had  grown  old 
and  was  looking  back  calmly  to  a  girlhood  long  since 
past.  She  could  almost  smile  at  the  recollection  of 

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herself  stifling  her  sobs  in  her  pillow,  lest  Jim  should 
hear. 

"Why  should  I  care  for  him?"  she  asked  herself 
wonderingly ;  and  could  not  tell. 

Then  all  at  once  she  found  herself  weeping  softly, 
her  head  on  the  rickety  table. 

Jim  Dodge,  too  intently  absorbed  in  his  own  con 
fused  thoughts  to  pay  much  attention  to  Fanny,  had 
walked  resolutely  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black's  house;  from  which,  he  reflected,  the  minister 
would  be  obliged  to  absent  himself  for  at  least  an 
hour.  He  hoped  Mrs.  Black  had  not  induced  Lydia 
to  go  to  the  prayer  meeting  with  her.  Why  any  one 
should  voluntarily  go  to  a  prayer  meeting  passed  his 
comprehension.  Jim  had  once  attended  what  was 
known  as  a  "protracted  meeting,"  for  the  sole  pur 
pose  of  pleasing  his  mother,  who  all  at  once  had  ap 
peared  tearfully  anxious  about  his  "  soul."  He  had 
not  enjoyed  the  experience. 

"  Are  you  saved,  my  dear  young  brother?  "  Deacon 
Whittle  had  inquired  of  him,  in  his  snuffling,  whining, 
peculiarly  objectionable  tone. 

"  From  what,  Deacon  ?  "  Jim  had  blandly  inquired. 
"You  in  for  it,  too?" 

Whereat  the  Deacon  had  piously  shaken  his  head  and 
referred  him  to  the  "  mourner's  pew,"  with  the  hope 
that  he  might  even  yet  be  plucked  as  a  brand  from 
the  burning. 

Lydia  had  not  gone  to  the  prayer  meeting.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  piazza,  quite  alone.  She  arose  when  her 
determined  visitor  boldly  walked  up  the  steps. 

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"  Oh,  it  is  you !  "  said  she. 

An  unreasonable  feeling  of  elation  arose  in  the  young 
man's  breast. 

"  Did  you  think  I  wasn't  coming?  "  he  inquired,  with 
all  the  egotism  of  which  he  had  been  justly  accused. 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  reply;  but  proceeded  with 
considerable  humor  to  describe  his  previous  unsuccess 
ful  attempts  to  see  her. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  added,  "  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  has 
kindly  warned  you  against  me  ?  " 

She  could  not  deny  it ;  so  smiled  instead. 

"  Well,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  give  you  my  word 
I'm  not  a  villain:  I  neither  drink,  steal,  nor  gamble. 
But  I'm  not  a  saint,  after  the  prescribed  Brookville 
pattern." 

He  appeared  rather  proud  of  the  fact,  she  thought. 
Aloud  she  said,  with  pardonable  curiosity : 

"  What  is  the  Brookville  pattern  ?  I  ought  to  know, 
since  I  am  to  live  here." 

At  this  he  dropped  his  bantering  tone. 

"  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  that,"  he  said  gravely. 

"  You  mean—  ?" 

"  About  your  buying  the  old  Bolton  place  and  paying 
such  a  preposterous  price  for  it,  and  all  the  rest,  in 
cluding  the  minister's  back-pay." 

She  remained  silent,  playing  with  the  ribbon  of  her 
sash. 

"  I  have  a  sort  of  inward  conviction  that  you're  not 
doing  it  because  you  think  Brookville  is  such  a  pleasant 
place  to  live  in,"  he  went  on,  keenly  observant  of  the 
sudden  color  fluttering  in  her  cheeks,  revealed  by  the 

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light  of  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  parlor  lamp  which  stood 
on  a  stand  just  inside  the  carefully  screened  window. 
"  It  looks,"  he  finished,  "  as  if  you  —  well ;  it  may  be 
a  queer  thing  for  me  to  say;  but  I'll  tell  you  frankly 
that  when  mother  showed  me  the  check  she  got  today 
I  felt  that  it  was  —  charity." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  quickly.  "  You  are  quite,  quite 
in  the  wrong." 

"  But  you  can't  make  me  believe  that  with  all  your 
money  —  pardon  me  for  mentioning  what  everybody 
in  the  village  is  talking  about —  You'll  have  to  con 
vince  me  that  the  old  Bolton  place  has  oil  under  it,  or 
coal  or  diamonds,  before  I  — " 

"  Why  should  you  need  to  be  convinced  of  anything 
so  unlikely?  "  she  asked,  with  gentle  coldness. 

He  reddened  angrily. 

"Of  course  it's  none  of  my  business,"  he  conceded. 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  But,  naturally,  I  could  have 
no  idea  of  coal  or  oil  — " 

"  Well ;  I  won't  work  for  you  at  any  four  dollars  a 
day,"  he  said  loudly.  "  I  thought  I'd  like  to  tell  you." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to,"  she  said.  "  Didn't  Deacon 
Whittle  give  you  my  message  ?  " 

He  got  hurriedly  to  his  feet  with  a  muttered  excla 
mation. 

"  Please  sit  down,  Mr.  Dodge,"  she  bade  him  tran 
quilly.  "  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you  all  day.  But 
there  are  so  few  telephones  in  Brookville  it  is  difficult 
to  get  word  to  people." 

He  eyed  her  with  stubborn  resentment. 
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"  What  I  meant  to  say  was  that  four  dollars  a  day  is 
too  much !  Don't  you  know  anything  about  the  value 
of  money,  Miss  Orr?  Somebody  ought  to  have  com 
mon  honesty  enough  to  inform  you  that  there  are 
plenty  of  men  in  Brookville  who  would  be  thankful  to 
work  for  two  dollars  a  day.  I  would,  for  one ;  and  I 
won't  take  a  cent  more." 

She  was  frowning  a  little  over  these  statements. 
The  stalwart  young  man  in  shabby  clothes  who  sat  fac 
ing  her  under  the  light  of  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  well- 
trimmed  lamp  appeared  to  puzzle  her. 

"  But  why  shouldn't  you  want  to  earn  all  you  can  ?  " 
she  propounded  at  last.  "  Isn't  there  anything  you 
need  to  use  money  for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  a  few  things,"  he  admitted  grudgingly. 
"  I  suppose  you've  noticed  that  I'm  not  exactly  the 
glass  of  fashion  and  the  mold  of  form." 

He  was  instantly  ashamed  of  himself  for  the  crude 
personality . 

"  You  must  think  I'm  a  fool ! "  burst  from  him,  un 
der  the  sting  of  his  self-inflicted  lash. 

She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I'm  not  at  all  the  sort  of  person  you  appear  to  think 
me,"  she  said.  Her  grave  blue  eyes  looked  straight 
into  his.  "  But  don't  let's  waste  time  trying  to  be 
clever :  I  want  to  ask  you  if  you  are  willing,  for  a  fair 
salary,  to  take  charge  of  the  outdoor  improvements  at 
Bolton  House." 

She  colored  swiftly  at  sight  of  the  quizzical  lift  of 
his  brows. 

"  I've  decided  to  call  my  place  '  Bolton  House '  for 
no 


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several  reasons,"  she  went  on  rapidly:  "  for  one  thing, 
everybody  has  always  called  it  the  Bolton  place,  so  it 
will  be  easier  for  the  workmen  and  everybody  to  know 
what  place  is  meant.  Besides,  I  — " 

"Yes;  but  the  name  of  Bolton  has  an  ill-omened 
sound  in  Brookville  ears,"  he  objected.  "  You've  no 
idea  how  people  here  hate  that  man." 

"  It  all  happened  so  long  ago,  I  should  think  they 
might  forgive  him  by  now,"  she  offered,  after  a  pause. 

"  I  wouldn't  call  my  house  after  a  thief,"  he  said 
strongly.  "  There  are  hundreds  of  prettier  names. 
Why  not  —  Pine  Court,  for  example?  " 

"  You  haven't  told  me  yet  if  you  will  accept  the  po 
sition  I  spoke  of." 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  clean-shaven  chin,  a 
trick  he  had  inherited  from  his  father,  and  surveyed 
her  steadily  from  under  meditative  brows. 

"  In  the  first  place,  I'm  not  a  landscape  gardener, 
Miss  Orr,"  he  stated.  "  That's  the  sort  of  man  you 
want.  You  can  get  one  in  Boston,  who'll  group  your 
evergreens,  open  vistas,  build  pergolas  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing." 

"  You  appear  to  know  exactly  what  I  want,"  she 
laughed. 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  he  defied  her. 

"  But,  seriously,  I  don't  want  and  won't  have  a  land 
scape-gardener  from  Boston  —  with  due  deference  to 
your  well-formed  opinions,  Mr.  Dodge.  I  intend  to 
mess  around  myself,  and  change  my  mind  every  other 
day  about  all  sorts  of  things.  I  want  to  work  things 
out,  not  on  paper  in  cold  black  and  white ;  but  in  terms 

in 


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of  growing  things  —  wild  things  out  of  the  woods. 
You  understand,  I'm  sure." 

The  dawning  light  in  his  eyes  told  her  that  he  did. 

"  But  I've  had  no  experience/'  he  hesitated.  "  Be 
sides,  I've  considerable  farm-work  of  my  own  to  do. 
I've  been  hoeing  potatoes  all  day.  Tomorrow  I  shall 
have  to  go  into  the  cornfield,  or  lose  my  crop.  Time, 
tide  and  weeds  wait  for  no  man." 

"  I  supposed  you  were  a  hunter,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  — " 

He  laughed  unpleasantly. 

"  Oh,  I  see/'  he  interrupted  rudely :  "  you  supposed, 
in  other  words,  that  I  was  an  idle  chap,  addicted  to 
•wandering  about  the  woods,  a  gun  on  my  shoulder,  a 
cur  —  quite  as  much  of  a  ne'er-do-well  as  myself  —  at 
my  heels.  Of  course  Deacon  Whittle  and  Mrs.  Solo 
mon  Black  have  told  you  all  about  it.  And  since  you've 
set  about  reforming  Brookville,  you  thought  you'd  be 
gin  with  me.  Well,  I'm  obliged  to  you ;  but  — " 

The  girl  arose  trembling  to  her  feet. 

"  You  are  not  kind !  "  she  cried.  "  You  are  not 
kind!" 

They  stood  for  an  instant,  gazing  into  each  other's 
eyes  during  one  of  those  flashes  of  time  which  some 
times  count  for  years. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  muttered  huskily.  "  I'm  a  brute 
at  best ;  but  I  had  no  business  to  speak  to  you  as  I  did." 

"  But  why  did  you  say  —  what  made  you  ever  think 
I'd  set  about  reforming  —  that  is  what  you  said  —  re- 
f owning  —  Brookville?  I  never  thought  of  such  a 
thing!  How  could  I?" 

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He  hung  his  head,  abashed  by  the  lightning  in  her 
mild  eyes. 

She  clasped  her  small,  fair  hands  and  bent  toward 
him. 

"  And  you  said  you  wanted  to  be  —  friends.  I 
hoped  — " 

"  I  do,"  he  said  gruffly.  "  I've  told  you  I'm  ashamed 
of  myself." 

She  drew  back,  sighing  deeply. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  feel  —  ashamed,"  she  said,  in 
a  sweet,  tired  voice.  "  But  I  wish  — " 

"  Tell  me!  "  he  urged,  when  she  did  not  finish  her 
sentence. 

"  Do  you  think  everybody  is  going  to  misunderstand 
me,  as  you  have?"  she  asked,  somewhat  piteously. 
"  Is  it  so  strange  and  unheard  of  a  thing  for  a  woman 
to  want  a  home  and  —  and  friends  ?  Isn't  it  allowable 
for  a  person  who  has  money  to  want  to  pay  fair 
wages?  Why  should  I  scrimp  and  haggle  and  screw, 
when  I  want  most  of  all  to  be  generous?  " 

"  Because,"  he  told  her  seriously,  "  scrimping,  hag 
gling  and  screwing  have  been  the  fashion  for  so  long, 
the  other  thing  rouses  mean  suspicions  by  its  very  nov 
elty.  It's  too  good  to  be  true;  that's  all." 

"  You  mean  people  will  suspect  —  they'll  think 
there's  something  — " 

She  stood  before  him,  her  hands  fallen  at  her  sides, 
her  eyes  downcast. 

"  I  confess  I  couldn't  believe  that  there  wasn't  an 
ulterior  motive,"  he  said  honestly.  "  That's  where  I 
was  less  noble  than  you." 


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She  flashed  a  sudden  strange  look  at  him. 

"  There  is,"  she  breathed.  "  I'm  going  to  be  hon 
est  —  with  you.  I  have  —  an  ulterior  motive." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?  " 

Her  lips  formed  the  single  word  of  denial. 

He  gazed  at  her  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  I'm  going  to  accept  the  post  you  just  offered  me, 
Miss  Orr ;  at  any  salary  you  think  I'm  worth,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  murmured. 

Steps  and  the  sound  of  voices  floated  across  the 
picket  fence.  The  gate  rasped  on  its  rusted  hinges; 
then  slammed  shut. 

"  If  I  was  you,  Mr.  Elliot,"  came  the  penetrating 
accents  of  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  voice,  "  I  should  hire 
a  reg'lar  reviv'list  along  in  th'  fall,  after  preservin'  an' 
house-cleanin'  time.  We  need  an  outpourin'  of  grace, 
right  here  in  Brookville;  and  we  can't  get  it  no  other 
way." 

And  the  minister's  cultured  voice  in  reply : 

"  I  shall  give  your  suggestion  the  most  careful  con 
sideration,  Mrs.  Black,  between  now  and  the  autumn 


season." 


"Great  Scott!  "  exclaimed  Jim  Dodge;  "this  is  no 
place  for  me !  Good  night,  Miss  Orr !  " 

She  laid  her  hand  in  his. 

"  You  can  trust  me,"  he  said  briefly,  and  became  on 
the  instant  a  flitting  shadow  among  the  lilac  bushes, 
lightly  vaulting  over  the  fence  and  mingling  with  the 
darker  shadows  beyond. 


114 


CHAPTER  IX 

NOW,  Henry,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett,  as  she  smil 
ingly  set  a  plate  of  perfectly  browned  pan 
cakes  before  her  husband,  which  he  proceeded 
to  deluge  with  butter  and  maple  syrup,  "  are  you 
sure  that's  so,  about  the  furniture?  'Cause  if  it  is, 
we've  got  two  or  three  o'  them  things  right  in  this 
house:  that  chair  you're  settin'  in,  for  one,  an'  up 
stairs  there's  that  ol'  fashioned  brown  bureau,  where 
I  keep  the  sheets  'n'  pillow  slips.  You  don't  s'pose 
she'd  want  that,  do  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Daggett  sank  down  in  a  chair  opposite  her 
husband,  her  large  pink  and  white  face  damp  with 
moisture.  Above  her  forehead  a  mist  of  airy  curls 
fluttered  in  the  warm  breeze  from  the  open  window. 

"  My,  ain't  it  hot !  "  she  sighed.  "  I  got  all  het  up 
a-bakin'  them  cakes.  Shall  I  fry  you  another  griddle- 
ful,  papa  ?  " 

"  They  cert'nly  do  taste  kind  o'  moreish,  Abby," 
conceded  Mr.  Daggett  thickly.  "  You  do  beat  the 
Dutch,  Abby,  when  it  comes  t'  pancakes.  Mebbe  I 
could  manage  a  few  more  of  'em." 

Mrs.  Daggett  beamed  sincerest  satisfaction. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  deprecated  happily.  "  Ann 
Whittle  says  I  don't  mix  batter  the  way  she  does.  But 
if  you  like  'em,  Henry  — " 


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"  Couldn't  be  beat,  Abby,"  affirmed  Mr.  Daggett 
sturdily,  as  he  reached  for  his  third  cup  of  coffee. 

The  cook  stove  was  only  a  few  steps  away,  so  the 
sizzle  of  the  batter  as  it  expanded  into  generous  disks 
on  the  smoking  griddle  did  not  interrupt  the  conversa 
tion.  Mrs.  Daggett,  in  her  blue  and  white  striped 
gingham,  a  pancake  turner  in  one  plump  hand,  smiled 
through  the  odorous  blue  haze  like  a  tutelary  goddess. 
Mr.  Daggett,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  scant  locks 
brushed  carefully  over  his  bald  spot,  gazed  at  her  with 
placid  satisfaction.  He  was  thoroughly  accustomed 
to  having  Abby  wait  upon  his  appetite. 

"  I  got  to  get  down  to  the  store  kind  of  early  this 
morning,  Abby,"  he  observed,  frowning  slightly  at  his 
empty  plate. 

"  I'll  have  'em  for  you  in  two  shakes  of  a  lamb's 
tail,  papa,"  soothed  Mrs.  Daggett,  to  whom  the  above 
remark  had  come  to  signify  not  merely  a  statement  of 
fact,  but  a  gentle  reprimand.  "  I  know  you  like  'em 
good  and  hot;  and  cold  buckwheat  cakes  certainly  is 
about  th'  meanest  vict'als.  .  .  .  There ! " 

And  she  transferred  a  neat  pile  of  the  delicate,  crisp 
rounds  from  the  griddle  to  her  husband's  plate  with  a 
skill  born  of  long  practice. 

"  About  that  furnitur',"  remarked  Mr.  Daggett,  gaz 
ing  thoughtfully  at  the  golden  stream  of  sweetness, 
stolen  from  leaf  and  branch  of  the  big  sugar  maples 
behind  the  house  to  supply  the  pewter  syrup-jug  he 
suspended  above  his  cakes,  "  I  guess  it's  a  fact  she 
wants  it,  all  right." 

"  I  should  think  she'd  rather  have  new  furniture ; 

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Henry,  they  do  say  the  house  is  going  to  be  handsome. 
But  you  say  she  wants  the  old  stuff?  Ain't  that  queer, 
for  anybody  with  means." 

"  Well,  that  Orr  girl  beats  me,"  Mr.  Daggett  ac 
knowledged  handsomely.  "  She  seems  kind  of  soft  an' 
easy,  when  you  talk  to  her;  but  she's  got  ideas  of  her 
own ;  an'  you  can't  no  more  talk  'em  out  of  her  — " 

"  Why  should  you  try  to  talk  'em  out  of  her,  papa?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Daggett  mildly.  "  Mebbe  her  ideas  is 
all  right ;  and  anyhow,  s'long  as  she's  paying  out  good 
money  — " 

"  Oh,  she'll  pay !  she'll  pay !  "  said  Mr.  Daggett,  with 
a  large  gesture.  "  Ain't  no  doubt  about  her  paying  for 
what  she  wants." 

He  shoved  his  plate  aside,  and  tipped  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  heavy  yawn. 

"  She's  asked  me  to  see  about  the  wall  paper,  Abby," 
he  continued,  bringing  down  his  chair  with  a  resound 
ing  thump  of  its  sturdy  legs.  "  And  she's  got  the 
most  outlandish  notions  about  it;  asked  me  could  I 
match  up  what  was  on  the  walls." 

"Match  it  up?  Why,  ain't  th'  paper  all  mold- 
ered  away,  Henry,  with  the  damp  an'  all  ?  " 

'*  'Course  it  is,  Abby;  but  she  says  she  wants  to  re 
store  the  house  —  fix  it  up  just  as  'twas.  She  says 
that's  th'  correct  thing  to  do.  '  Why,  shucks ! '  I  sez, 
'  the  wall  papers  they're  gettin'  out  now  is  a  lot  hand 
somer  than  them  old  style  papers.  You  don't  want  no 
old  stuff  like  that,'  I  sez.  But,  I  swan !  you  can't  tell 
that  girl  nothing,  for  all  she  seems  so  mild  and 
meachin'.  I  was  wonderin'  if  you  couldn't  shove 

117 


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some  sense  into  her,  Abby.  Now,  I'd  like  th'  job  of 
furnishin'  up  that  house  with  new  stuff.  '  I  don't 
carry  a  very  big  stock  of  furniture/  I  sez  to  her; 
but—" 

"  Why,  Hen-ery  Daggett!  "  reproved  his  wife,  "  an* 
you  a  reg'lar  professing  member  of  the  church!  You 
ain't  never  carried  no  stock  of  furniture  in  the  store, 
and  you  know  it." 

"  That  ain't  no  sign  I  ain't  never  goin'  to,  Abby," 
retorted  Mr.  Daggett  with  spirit.  "  We  been  stuck 
right  down  in  the  mud  here  in  Brookville  since  that 
dratted  bank  failed.  Nobody's  moved,  except  to  the 
graveyard.  And  here  comes  along  a  young  woman 
with  money  ...  I'd  like  mighty  well  to  know  just 
how  much  she's  got  an'  where  it  come  from.  I  asked 
the  Judge,  and  he  says,  blamed  if  he  knows.  .  .  .  But 
this  'ere  young  female  spells  op-per-tunity,  Abby.  We 
got  to  take  advantage  of  the  situation,  Abby,  same 
as  you  do  in  blackberrying  season:  pick  'em  when 
they're  ripe;  if  you  don't,  the  birds  and  the  bugs'll  get 
'em." 

"  It  don't  sound  right  to  me,  papa,"  murmured  his 
wife,  her  kind  face  full  of  soft  distress:  "  Taking  ad 
vantage  of  a  poor  young  thing,  like  her,  an*  all  in 
mourning,  too,  fer  a  near  friend.  She  told  Lois  so 
.  .  .  Dear,  dear!" 

Mr.  Daggett  had  filled  his  morning  pipe  and  was 
puffing  energetically  in  his  efforts  to  make  it  draw. 

"  I  didn't  say  take  advantage  of  her"  he  objected. 
"  That's  somethin'  I  never  done  yet  in  my  business, 
Abby.  Th'  Lord  knows  I  don't  sand  my  sugar  nor 

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water  my  vinegar,  the  way  some  storekeepers  do.  I'm 
all  for  '  live  an'  let  live.'  What  I  says  was  —  ... 
Now,  you  pay  attention  to  me,  Abby,  and  quit  sniffling. 
You're  a  good  woman ;  but  you're  about  as  soft  as  that 
there  butter!  .  .  ." 

The  article  in  question  had  melted  to  a  yellow  pool 
under  the  heat.  Mrs.  Daggett  gazed  at  it  with  wide 
blue  eyes,  like  those  of  a  child. 

"  Why,  Henry,"  she  protested,  "  I  never  heerd  you 
talk  so  before." 

"  And  likely  you  won't  again.  Now  you  listen, 
Abby;  all  I  want,  is  to  do  what  honest  business  I  can 
with  this  young  woman.  She's  bound  to  spend  her 
money,  and  she's  kind  of  took  to  me;  comes  into  th' 
store  after  her  mail,  and  hangs  around  and  buys  the 
greatest  lot  o'  stuff  —  '  Land ! '  I  says  to  her :  '  a 
body'd  think  you  was  getting  ready  to  get  married.' ' 

"  Well,  now  I  shouldn't  wonder  — "  began  Mrs.  Dag 
gett  eagerly. 

"  Don't  you  get  excited,  Abby.  She  says  she  ain't ; 
real  pointed,  too.  But  about  this  wall  paper;  I  don't 
know  as  I  can  match  up  them  stripes  and  figures.  I 
wisht  you'd  go  an'  see  her,  Abby.  She'll  tell  you  all 
about  it.  An'  her  scheme  about  collecting  all  the  old 
Bolton  furniture  is  perfectly  ridiculous.  'Twouldn't 
be  worth  shucks  after  kickin'  'round  folk's  houses  here 
in  Brookville  for  the  last  fifteen  years  or  so." 

"  But  you  can't  never  find  her  at  home,  Henry,"  said 
Mrs.  Daggett.  "  I  been  to  see  her  lots  of  times ;  but 
Mis'  Solomon  Black  says  she  don't  stay  in  the  house 
hardly  long  enough  to  eat  her  victuals." 

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"  Why  don't  you  take  the  buggy,  Abby,  and  drive 
out  to  the  old  place?"  suggested  Mr.  Daggett. 
"  Likely  you'll  find  her  there.  She  appears  to  take  an 
interest  in  every  nail  that's  drove.  I  can  spare  the 
horse  this  afternoon  just  as  well  as  not." 

"  Twould  be  pleasant,"  purred  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  But, 
I  suppose,  by  rights,  I  ought  to  take  Lois  along." 

"  Nope,"  disagreed  her  husband,  shaking  his  head. 
"  Don't  you  take  Lois;  she  wouldn't  talk  confiding  to 
Lois,  the  way  she  would  to  you.  You've  got  a  way 
with  you,  Abby.  I'll  bet  you  could  coax  a  bird  off  a 
bush  as  easy  as  pie,  if  you  was  a  mind  to." 

Mrs.  Daggett's  big  body  shook  with  soft  laughter. 
She  beamed  rosily  on  her  husband. 

"  How  you  do  go  on,  Henry !  "  she  protested.  "  But 
I  ain't  going  to  coax  Lydia  Orr  off  no  bush  she's  set 
her  heart  on.  She's  got  the  sweetest  face,  papa ;  an*  I 
know,  without  anybody  telling  me,  whatever  she  does 
or  wants  to  do  is  all  right." 

Mr.  Daggett  had  by  now  invested  his  portly  person 
in  a  clean  linen  coat,  bearing  on  its  front  the  shining 
mark  of  Mrs.  Daggett's  careful  iron. 

"  Same  here,  Abby,"  he  said  kindly :  "  whatever  you 
do,  Abby,  suits  me  all  right." 

The  worthy  couple  parted  for  the  morning:  Mr. 
Daggett  for  the  scene  of  his  activities  in  the  post  office 
and  store ;  Mrs.  Daggett  to  set  her  house  to  rights  and 
prepare  for  the  noon  meal,  when  her  Henry  liked  to 
"  eat  hearty  of  good,  nourishing  victuals,"  after  his 
light  repast  of  the  morning. 

"  Guess  I'll  wear  my  striped  muslin,"  said  Mrs.  Dag- 

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gett  to  herself  happily.     "  Ain't  it  lucky  it's  all  clean 
an'  fresh  ?     Twill  be  so  cool  to  wear  out  buggy-ridin'." 

Mrs.  Daggett  was  always  finding  occasion  for  thus 
reminding  herself  of  her  astonishing  good  fortune. 
She  had  formed  the  habit  of  talking  aloud  to  herself 
as  she  worked  about  the  house  and  garden. 

"  Tain't  near  as  lonesome,  when  you  can  hear  the 
sound  of  a  voice  —  if  it  is  only  your  own,"  she  apolo 
gized,  when  rebuked  for  the  practice  by  her  friend  Mrs. 
Maria  Dodge.  "  Mebbe  it  does  sound  kind  of  crazy  — 
You  say  lunatics  does  it  constant  —  but,  I  don't  know, 
Maria,  I've  a  kind  of  a  notion  there's  them  that  hears, 
even  if  you  can't  see  'em.  And  mebbe  they  answer, 
too  —  in  your  thought-ear." 

"  You  want  to  be  careful,  Abby,"  warned  Mrs. 
Dodge,  shaking  her  head.  "  It  makes  the  chills  go 
up  and  down  my  back  to  hear  you  talk  like  that ;  and 
they  don't  allow  no  such  doctrines  in  the  church." 

"The  Apostle  Paul  allowed  'em,"  Mrs.  Daggett 
pointed  out,  "  so  did  the  Psalmist.  You  read  your 
Bible,  Maria,  with  that  in  mind,  and  you'll  see." 

In  the  spacious,  sunlighted  chamber  of  her  soul,  de 
voted  to  the  memory 'of  her  two  daughters  who  had 
died  in  early  childhood,  Mrs.  Daggett  sometimes  per 
mitted  herself  to  picture  Nellie  and  Minnie,  grown  to 
angelic  girlhood,  and  keeping  her  company  about  her 
lonely  household  tasks  in  the  intervals  not  necessarily 
devoted  to  harp  playing  in  the  Celestial  City.  She 
laughed  softly  to  herself  as  she  filled  two  pies  with 
sliced  sour  apples  and  dusted  them  plentifully  with 
spice  and  sugar. 

9  121 


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"  I'd  admire  to  see  papa  argufying  with  that  sweet 
girl,"  she  observed  to  the  surrounding  silence.  "  Papa 
certainly  is  set  on  having  his  own  way.  Guess  bein' 
alone  here  with  me  so  constant,  he's  got  kind  of  willful. 
But  it  don't  bother  me  any;  ain't  that  lucky?  " 

She  hurried  her  completed  pies  into  the  oven  with 
a  swiftness  of  movement  she  had  never  lost,  her  sweet, 
thin  soprano  soaring  high  in  the  words  of  a  winding 
old  hymn  tune: 

Lord,  how  we  grovel  here  below, 
Fond  of  these  trifling  toys ; 
Our  souls  can  neither  rise  nor  go 
To  taste  supernal  joys  I     .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  before  the  big  brown  horse, 
indignant  at  the  unwonted  invasion  of  his  afternoon 
leisure,  stepped  slowly  out  from  the  Daggett  barn. 
On  the  seat  of  the  old-fashioned  vehicle,  to  which  he 
had  been  attached  by  Mrs.  Daggett's  skillful  hands, 
that  lady  herself  sat  placidly  erect,  arrayed  in  her  blue 
and  white  striped  muslin.  Mrs.  Daggett  consci 
entiously  wore  stripes  at  all  seasons  of  the  year:  she 
had  read  somewhere  that  stripes  impart  to  the  most 
rotund  of  figures  an  appearance  of  slimness  totally  at 
variance  with  the  facts.  As  for  blue  and  white,  her 
favorite  combination  of  stripes,  any  fabric  in  those 
colors  looked  cool  and  clean;  and  there  was  a  vague 
strain  of  poetry  in  Mrs.  Daggett's  nature  which  made 
her  lift  her  eyes  to  a  blue  sky  filled  with  floating  white 
clouds  with  a  sense  of  rapturous  satisfaction  wholly 
unrelated  to  the  state  of  the  weather. 

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"  G'long,  Dolly !  "  she  bade  the  reluctant  animal, 
with  a  gentle  slap  of  leathern  reins  over  a  rotund  back. 
"Git-ap!" 

"  Dolly,"  who  might  have  been  called  Caesar,  both 
by  reason  of  his  sex  and  a  stubbornly  dominant  nature, 
now  fortunately  subdued  by  years  of  chastening  experi 
ence,  strode  slowly  forward,  his  eyes  rolling,  his  large 
hoofs  stirring  up  heavy  clouds  of  dust.  There  were 
sweet-smelling  meadows  stacked  with  newly-cured 
hay  on  either  side  of  the  road,  and  tufts  of  red  clover 
blossoms  exhaling  delicious  odors  of  honey  almost  un 
der  his  saturnine  nose;  but  he  trotted  ponderously  on, 
sullenly  aware  of  the  gentle  hand  on  the  reins  and  the 
mild,  persistent  voice  which  bade  him  "  Git-ap,  Dolly !  " 

Miss  Lois  Daggett,  carrying  a  black  silk  bag,  which 
contained  a  prospectus  of  the  invaluable  work  which 
she  was  striving  to  introduce  to  an  unappreciative  pub 
lic,  halted  the  vehicle  before  it  had  reached  the  out 
skirts  of  the  village. 

"  Where  you  going,  Abby  ?  "  she  demanded,  in  the 
privileged  tone  of  authority  a  wife  should  expect  from 
her  husband's  female  relatives. 

"  Just  out  in  the  country  a  piece,  Lois,"  replied  Mrs. 
Daggett  evasively. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'll  git  in  and  ride  a  ways  with  you," 
said  Lois  Daggett.  "  Cramp  your  wheel,  Abby,"  she 
added  sharply.  "  I  don't  want  to  git  my  skirt  all 
dust." 

Miss  Daggett  was  wearing  a  black  alpaca  skirt  and 
a  white  shirtwaist,  profusely  ornamented  with  what  is 
known  as  coronation  braid.  Her  hair,  very  tightly 

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frizzed,  projected  from  beneath  the  brim  of  her  straw 
hat  on  both  sides. 

"  I'm  going  out  to  see  if  I  can  catch  that  Orr  girl  this 
afternoon,"  she  explained,  as  she  took  a  seat  beside 
her  sister-in-law.  "  She  ought  to  want  a  copy  of  Fa 
mous  People  —  in  the  best  binding,  too.  I  ain't  sold  a 
leather-bound  yit,  not  even  in  Grenoble.  They  come 
in  red  with  gold  lettering.  You'd  ought  to  have  one, 
Abby,  now  that  Henry's  gitting  more  business  by  the 
minute.  I  should  think  you  might  afford  one,  if  you 
ain't  too  stingy." 

"  Mebbe  we  could,  Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett  ami 
ably.  "  I've  always  thought  I'd  like  to  know  more 
about  famous  people:  what  they  eat  for  breakfast,  and 
how  they  do  their  back  hair  and  — " 

"Don't  be  silly,  Abby,"  Miss  Daggett  bade  her 
sharply.  "  There  ain't  any  such  nonsense  in  Famous 
People !  7  wouldn't  be  canvassing  for  it,  if  there  was." 
And  she  shifted  her  pointed  nose  to  one  side  with  a 
slight,  genteel  sniff. 

"  Git-ap,  Dolly ! "  murmured  Mrs.  Daggett,  gently 
slapping  the  reins. 

Dolly  responded  by  a  single  swift  gesture  of  his  tail 
which  firmly  lashed  the  hated  reminder  of  bondage  to 
his  hind  quarters.  Then  wickedly  pretending  that  he 
was  not  aware  of  what  had  happened  he  strolled  to  the 
side  of  the  road  nearest  the  hay  field. 

"  Now,  if  he  ain't  gone  and  got  his  tail  over  the 
lines ! "  cried  Mrs.  Daggett  indignantly.  "  He's  got 
more  resistin'  strength  in  that  tail  of  his'n  —  wonder 
if  I  can—" 

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She  leaned  over  the  dashboard  and  grasped  the  of 
fending  member  with  both  hands. 

"  You  hang  onto  the  lines,  Lois,  and  give  'em  a  good 
jerk  the  minute  I  loosen  up  his  tail." 

The  subsequent  failure  of  this  attempt  deflected  the 
malicious  Dolly  still  further  from  the  path  of  duty.  A 
wheel  cramped  and  lifted  perilously. 

Miss  Daggett  squealed  shrilly: 

"  He'll  tip  the  buggy  over  —  he'll  tip  the  buggy 
over !  For  pity's  sake,  Abby !  " 

Mrs.  Daggett  stepped  briskly  out  of  the  vehicle  and 
seized  the  bridle. 

"  Ain't  you  ashamed  ? "  she  demanded  sternly. 
"  You  loosen  up  that  there  tail  o'  yourn  this  minute !  " 

"  I  got  'em !  "  announced  Miss  Daggett,  triumph 
antly.  "  He  loosened  right  up." 

She  handed  the  recovered  reins  to  her  sister-in-law, 
and  the  two  ladies  resumed  their  journey  and  their 
conversation. 

"  I  never  was  so  scared  in  all  my  life,"  stated  Lois 
Daggett,  straightening  her  hat  which  had  assumed  a 
rakish  angle  over  one  ear.  "  I  should  think  you'd  be 
afraid  to  drive  such  a  horse,  Abby.  What  in  creation 
would  have  happened  to  you  if  I  hadn't  been  in  the 
buggy?" 

"  As  like  as  not  he  wouldn't  have  took  a  notion  with 
his  tail,  Lois,  if  I'd  been  driving  him  alone,"  hazarded 
Mrs.  Daggett  mildly.  "  Dolly's  an  awful  knowing 
horse.  .  .  .  Git-ap,  Dolly!" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Abby  Daggett,  that  there 
horse  of  Henry's  has  took  a  spite  against  me?"  de- 

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manded  the  spinster.  .  .  .  "  Mebbe  he's  a  mind- 
reader,"  she  added  darkly. 

"  You  know  I  didn't  mean  nothin'  like  that,  Lois," 
her  sister-in-law  assured  her  pacifically.  "  What  I 
meant  to  say  was:  I  got  so  interested  in  what  you 
were  saying,  Lois,  that  I  handled  the  reins  careless, 
and  he  took  advantage.  .  .  .  Git-ap,  Dolly!  Don't 
you  see,  Lois,  even  a  horse  knows  the  difference  when 
two  ladies  is  talking." 

"  You'd  ought  to  learn  to  say  exactly  what  you  mean, 
Abby,"  commented  Miss  Daggett. 

She  glanced  suspiciously  at  the  fresh  striped  mus 
lin,  which  was  further  enhanced  by  a  wide  crocheted 
collar  and  a  light  blue  satin  bow. 

"  Where'd  you  say  you  were  goin'  this  afternoon, 
Abby?" 

"  I  said  out  in  the  country  a  piece,  Lois ;  it's  such  a 
nice  afternoon." 

"  Well,  /  should  think  Henry'd  be  needing  the  horse 
for  his  business.  I  know  I'd  never  think  of  asking  him 
for  it  —  and  me  a  blood  relation,  too,  trying  to  earn 
my  bread  and  butter  tramping  around  the  country  with 
Famous  People." 

Mrs.  Daggett,  thus  convicted  of  heartless  selfishness, 
sighed  vaguely.  Henry's  sister  always  made  her  feel 
vastly  uncomfortable,  even  sinful. 

"  You  know,  Lois,  we'd  be  real  glad  to  have  you 
come  and  live  with  us  constant,"  she  said  heroically. 
.  .  ."Git-ap,  Dolly!" 

Miss  Daggett  compressed  her  thin  lips. 

"  No ;  I'm  too  independent  for  that,  Abby,  an'  you 

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know  it.  If  poor  Henry  was  to  be  left  a  widower,  I 
might  consider  living  in  his  house  and  doing  for  him ; 
but  you  know,  Abby,  there's  very  few  houses  big 
enough  for  two  women.  .  .  .  And  that  r'minds  me; 
did  you  know  Miss  Orr  has  got  a  hired  girl  ?  " 

"  Has  she  ?  "  inquired  Mrs.  Daggett,  welcoming  the 
change  of  subject  with  cordial  interest.  "  A  hired 
girl!  .  .  .  Git-ap,  Dolly!" 

"Yes,"  confirmed  Miss  Daggett.  "Lute  Parsons 
was  telling  me  she  came  in  on  th'  noon  train  yesterday. 
She  brought  a  trunk  with  her,  and  her  check  was  from 
Boston." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know !  "  murmured  Mrs.  Daggett. 
"  Boston's  where  she  came  from,  ain't  it  ?  It'll  be  real 
pleasant  for  her  to  have  somebody  from  Boston  right 
in  the  house.  .  .  .  G'long,  Dolly ! " 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  be  so  sure  of  that, 
Abby,"  sniffed  Miss  Daggett.  "  I  should  think  a  per 
son  from  right  here  in  Brookville  would  be  more  com 
pany.  How  can  a  hired  girl  from  Boston  view  the 
passin'  and  tell  her  who's  goin'  by?  I  think  it's  a  ri 
diculous  idea,  myself." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it's  somebody  she  knows," 
surmised  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  'Twould  be  real  pleasant 
for  her  to  have  a  hired  girl  that's  mebbe  worked  for 
her  folks." 

"  I  intend  to  ask  her,  if  she  comes  to  the  door,"  stated 
Lois  Daggett.  "  You  can  drop  me  right  at  the  gate ; 
and  if  you  ain't  going  too  far  with  your  buggy-riding, 
Abby,  you  might  stop  and  take  me  up  a  spell  later. 
It's  pretty  warm  to  walk  far  today." 

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"  Well,  I  was  thinkin'  mebbe  I'd  stop  in  there,  too, 
Lois,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett  apologetically.  "  I  ain't 
been  to  see  Miss  Orr  for  quite  a  spell,  and  — " 

The  spinster  turned  and  fixed  a  scornfully,  intelligent 
gaze  upon  the  mild,  rosy  countenance  of  her  sister-in- 
law. 

"Oh,  /  see!"  she  sniffed.  "That  was  where  you 
was  pointing  for,  all  the  while !  And  you  didn't  let  on 
to  me,  oh,  no!  " 

"  Now,  Lois,  don't  you  get  excited,"  exhorted  Mrs. 
Daggett.  "  It  was  just  about  the  wall  papers.  Henry, 
he  says  to  me  this  mornin' —  .  .  .  Git-ap,  Dolly ! " 

"'Henry  says  —  Henry  says'!  Yes;  I  guess  so! 
What  do  you  know  about  wall  papers,  Abby?  .  .  . 
Well,  all  I  got  to  say  is :  I  don't  want  nobody  looking 
on  an'  interfering  when  I'm  trying  to  sell  '  Lives  of 
Famous  People/  Folks,  es  a  rule,  ain't  so  interested 
in  anything  they  got  to  pay  out  money  fer,  an'  I  want 
a  clear  field." 

"  I  won't  say  a  word  till  you're  all  through  talkin', 
Lois,"  promised  Mrs.  Daggett  meekly.  "  Mebbe  she'd 
kind  of  hate  to  say  '  no '  before  me.  She's  took  a 
real  liking  to  Henry.  .  .  .  Git-ap,  Dolly.  .  .  .  And 
anyway,  she's  awful  generous.  I  could  say,  kind  of 
careless;  'If  I  was  you,  I'd  take  a  leather-bound.' 
Couldn't  I,  Lois?" 

"  Well,  you  can  come  in,  Abby,  if  you're  so  terrible 
anxious,"  relented  Miss  Daggett.  "  You  might  tell 
her,  you  and  Henry  was  going  to  take  a  leather-bound ; 
that  might  have  some  effect.  I  remember  once  I  sold 
three  Famous  People  in  a  row  in  one  street.  There 

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couldn't  one  o'  them  women  endure  to  think  of  her 
next  door  neighbor  having  something  she  didn't  have." 

"That's  so,  Lois/'  beamed  Mrs.  Daggett.  "The 
most  of  folks  is  about  like  that.  Why,  I  rec'lect  once, 
Henry  brought  me  up  a  red-handled  broom  from  th' 
store.  My!  it  wa'n't  no  time  b'fore  he  was  cleaned 
right  out  of  red-handled  brooms.  Nobody  wanted  'em 
natural  color,  striped,  or  blue.  Henry,  he  says  to  me, 
'  What  did  you  do  to  advertise  them  red-handled 
brooms,  Abby  ? '  '  Why,  papa,'  says  I,  '  I  swept  off 
my  stoop  and  the  front  walk  a  couple  of  times,  that's 
all/  *  Well,'  he  says,  '  broom-handles  is  as  catching 
as  measles,  if  you  only  get  'em  th'  right  color! '  .  .  . 
Git-ap,  Dolly!" 

"  Well,  did  you  ever! "  breathed  Miss  Daggett  ex 
citedly,  leaning  out  of  the  buggy  to  gaze  upon  the  scene 
of  activity  displayed  on  the  further  side  of  the  freshly- 
pruned  hedge  which  divided  Miss  Lydia  Orr's  property 
from  the  road :  "  Painters  and  carpenters  and  ma 
sons,  all  going  at  once!  And  ain't  that  Jim  Dodge 
out  there  in  the  side  yard  talking  to  her?  'Tis,  as 
sure  as  I'm  alive!  I  wonder  what  he's  doing?  Go 
right  in,  Abby !  " 

"  I  kind  of  hate  to  drive  Dolly  in  on  that  fresh 
gravel,"  hesitated  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  He's  so  heavy  on 
his  feet  he'll  muss  it  all  up.  Mebbe  I'd  better  hitch 
out  in  front." 

"  She  sees  us,  Abby ;  go  on  in ! "  commanded  Miss 
Daggett  masterfully.  "  I  guess  when  it  comes  to  that, 
her  gravel  ain't  any  better  than  other  folks'  gravel." 

Thus  urged,  Mrs.  Daggett  guided  the  sulky  brown 


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horse  between  the  big  stone  gateposts  and  brought  him 
to  a  standstill  under  the  somewhat  pretentious  porte- 
cochere  of  the  Bolton  house.  , 

Lydia  Orr  was  beside  the  vehicle  in  a  moment,  her 
face  bright  with  welcoming  smiles. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Daggett,"  she  said,  "  I'm  so  glad  you've 
come.  I've  been  wanting  to  see  you  all  day.  I'm  sure 
you  can  tell  me — " 

"  You've  met  my  husband's  sister,  Miss  Lois 
Daggett,  haven't  you,  Miss  Orr?  She's  the  lady  that 
made  that  beautiful  drawn-in  mat  you  bought  at  the 
fair." 

Miss  Orr  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  author  of 
the  drawn-in  mat. 

"  Come  right  in,"  she  said.  "  You'll  want  to  see 
what  we're  doing  inside,  though  nothing  is  finished 
yet." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  small  room  off  the  library,  its 
long  French  windows  opening  on  a  balcony. 

"  This  room  used  to  be  a  kind  of  a  den,  they  tell 
me ;  so  I've  made  it  into  one,  the  first  thing,  you  see." 

There  was  a  rug  on  the  floor,  a  chair  or  two  and  a 
high  mahogany  desk  which  gave  the  place  a  semblance 
of  comfort  amid  the  general  confusion.  Miss  Lois 
Daggett  gazed  about  with  argus-eyed  curiosity. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  was  ever  in  this  room,  when  An 
drew  Bolton  lived  here,"  she  observed,  "  but  it  looks 
real  homelike  now." 

"  Poor  man !  I  often  think  of  him,"  said  kindly 
Mrs.  Daggett.  "  'Twould  be  turrible  to  be  shut  away 
from  the  sunshine  f 'r  even  one  year ;  but  poor  Andrew 

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Bolton's  been  closed  up  in  State's  prison  f er  —  1'  me 
see,  it  mus'  be  goin'  on  — " 

"  It's  fifteen  years,  come  fall,  since  he  got  his  sen 
tence,"  stated  the  spinster.  "  His  time  must  be  'most 
up." 

Lydia  Orr  had  seated  herself  in  an  old-fashioned 
chair,  its  tall  carved  back  turned  to  the  open  windows. 

"  Did  you  —  lose  much  in  the  bank  failure,  Miss 
Daggett?"  she  inquired,  after  a  slight  pause,  during 
which  the  promoter  of  Famous  People  was  loosening 
the  strings  of  her  black  silk  bag. 

"  About  two  hundred  dollars  I'd  saved  up/'  replied 
Miss  Daggett.  "  By  now  it  would  be  a  lot  more  — 
with  the  interest." 

"Yes,  of  course,"  assented  their  hostess;  "one 
should  always  think  of  interest  in  connection  with  sav 
ings." 

She  appeared  to  be  gazing  rather  attentively  at  the 
leather-bound  prospectus  Miss  Daggett  had  withdrawn 
from  her  bag. 

"  That  looks  like  something  interesting,  Miss  Dag 
gett,"  she  volunteered. 

"  This  volume  I'm  holdin'  in  my  hand,"  began  that 
lady,  professionally,  "  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
works  ever  issued  by  the  press  of  any  country.  It  is 
the  life  history  of  one  thousand  men  and  women  of 
world-wide  fame  and  reputation,  in  letters,  art,  science 
an'  public  life.  No  library  nor  parlor  table  is  complete 
without  this  authoritative  work  of  general  information 
an'  reference.  It  is  a  com-plete  library  in  itself, 
and—" 


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"What  is  the  price  of  the  work,  Miss  Daggett?" 
inquired  Lydia  Orr. 

"  Just  hold  on  a  minute ;  I'm  coming  to  that,"  said 
Miss  Daggett  firmly.  "  As  I  was  telling  you,  this  work 
is  a  complete  library  in  itself.  A  careful  perusal  of 
the  specimen  pages  will  convince  the  most  skeptical. 
Turning  to  page  four  hundred  and  fifty-six,  we 
read:—" 

"  I'm  sure  I  should  like  to  buy  the  book,  Miss  Dag 
gett." 

"  You  ain't  th'  only  one,"  said  the  agent.  "  Any 
person  of  even  the  most  ordinary  intelligence  ought  to 
own  this  work.  Turning  to  page  four  hundred  and 
fifty-six,  we  read :  '  Snipeley,  Samuel  Bangs :  lawyer 
legislator  an'  author;  born  eighteen  hundred  fifty-nine, 
in  the  town  of  — ' ' 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  pushed  noiselessly  open, 
and  a  tall,  spare  woman  of  middle  age  stood  upon  the 
threshold  bearing  a  tray  in  her  hands.  On  the  tray 
were  set  forth  silver  tea  things,  flanked  by  thin  bread 
and  butter  and  a  generous  pile  of  sponge  cake. 

"  You  must  be  tired  and  thirsty  after  your  drive," 
said  Lydia  Orr  hospitably.  "  You  may  set  the  tray 
here,  Martha." 

The  maid  complied. 

"Of  course  I  must  have  that  book,  Miss  Daggett/* 
their  hostess  went  on.  "  You  didn't  mention  the  title, 
nor  the  price.  Won't  you  have  a  cup  of  tea,  Mrs.  Dag 
gett?" 

"That  cup  of  tea  looks  real  nice;  but  I'm  afraid 
youVe  gone  to  a  lot  of  trouble  and  put  yourself  out," 

132 


Just  hold  on  a  minute ;  I'm  coming  to  that,"  said  Miss 
Daggett  firmly 


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protested  Mrs.  Daggett,  who  had  not  ventured  to  open 
her  lips  until  then.  What  wonderful  long  words  Lois 
had  used;  and  how  convincing  had  been  her  manner. 
Mrs.  Daggett  had  resolved  that  "  Lives  of  Famous 
People,"  in  its  best  red  leather  binding,  should  adorn 
her  own  parlor  table  in  the  near  future,  if  she  could 
persuade  Henry  to  consent. 

"  I  think  that  book  Lois  is  canvassing  for  is 
just  lovely/'  she  added  artfully,  as  she  helped  her 
self  to  cake.  "I'm  awful  anxious  to  own  one; 
just  think,  I'd  never  even  heard  of  Snipeley  Samuel 
Bangs  —" 

Lois  Daggett  crowed  with  laughter. 

"  Fer  pity  sake,  Abby !  don't  you  know  no  better 
than  that  ?  It's  Samuel  Bangs  Snipeley ;  he  was  County 
Judge,  the  author  of  '  Platform  Pearls,'  and  was  re 
turned  to  legislature  four  times  by  his  constituents, 
besides  being — " 

"  Could  you  spare  me  five  copies  of  the  book,  Miss 
Daggett?"  inquired  Lydia,  handing  her  the  sponge 
cake. 

"  Five  copies !  " 

Miss  Daggett  swiftly  controlled  her  agitation. 

"  I  haven't  told  you  the  price,  yet.  You'd  want  one 
of  them  leather-bound,  wouldn't  you?  They  come 
high,  but  they  wear  real  well,  and  I  will  say  there's 
nothing  handsomer  for  a  parlor  table." 

"  I  want  them  all  leather-bound,"  said  Lydia,  smil 
ing.  "  I  want  one  for  myself,  one  for  a  library  and 
the  other  three  — " 

"  There's  nothing  neater  for  a  Christmas  or  birth- 
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day  present !  "  shrilled  Lois  Daggett  joyously.  "  And 
so  informing." 

She  swallowed  her  tea  in  short,  swift  gulps;  her 
faded  eyes  shone.  Inwardly  she  was  striving  to  com 
pute  the  agent's  profit  on  five  leather-bound  copies  of 
Famous  People.  She  almost  said  aloud  "  I  can  have 
a  new  dress !  " 

"  We've  been  thinking,"  Lydia  Orr  said  composedly, 
"  that  it  might  be  pleasant  to  open  a  library  and  read 
ing  room  in  the  village.  What  do  you  think  of  the 
idea,  Miss  Daggett?  You  seem  interested  in  books, 
and  I  thought  possibly  you  might  like  to  take  charge  of 
the  work." 

"  Who,  me?  —    Take  charge  of  a  library?  " 

Lois  Daggett's  eyes  became  on  the  instant  watchful 
and  suspicious.  Lydia  Orr  had  encountered  that  look 
before,  on  the  faces  of  men  and  even  of  boys.  Every 
body  was  afraid  of  being  cheated,  she  thought.  Was 
this  just  in  Brookville,  and  because  of  the  misdeeds  of 
one  man,  so  long  ago  ? 

"Of  course  we  shall  have  to  talk  it  over  some  other 
day,  when  we  have  more  time,"  she  said  gently. 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  nice!  "  said  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  I 
was  in  a  library  once,  over  to  Grenoble.  Even  school 
children  were  coming  in  constant  to  get  books.  But  I 
never  thought  we  could  have  one  in  Brookville.  Where 
could  we  have  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that's  the  trouble,"  chimed  in  Lois.  "  There 
isn't  any  place  fit  for  anything  like  that  in  our 
town." 

Lydia  glanced  appealingly  from  one  to  the  other  of 

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the  two  faces.  One  might  have  thought  her  irresolute 
• —  or  even  afraid  of  their  verdict. 

"  I  had  thought/'  she  said  slowly,  "  of  buying  the 
old  Bolton  bank  building.  It  has  not  been  used  for 
anything,  Judge  Fulsom  says,  since  — " 

"  No ;  it  ain't,"  acquiesced  Mrs.  Daggett  soberly, 
"  not  since  — " 

She  fell  silent,  thinking  of  the  dreadful  winter  after 
the  bank  failure,  when  scarlet  fever  raged  among  the 
impoverished  homes. 

"  There's  been  some  talk,  off  and  on,  of  opening  a 
store  there,"  chimed  in  Lois  Daggett,  setting  down  her 
cup  with  a  clash ;  "  but  I  guess  nobody'd  patronize  it. 
Folks  don't  forget  so  easy." 

"  But  it's  a  good  substantial  building,"  Lydia  went 
on,  her  eyes  resting  on  Mrs.  Daggett's  broad,  rosy 
face,  which  still  wore  that  unwonted  look  of  pain  and 
sadness.  "  It  seems  a  pity  not  to  change  the  —  the 
associations.  The  library  and  reading  room  could  be 
on  the  first  floor ;  and  on  the  second,  perhaps,  a  town 
hall,  where—" 

"  For  the  land  sake ! "  ejaculated  Lois  Daggett ; 
"  you  cert'nly  have  got  an  imagination,  Miss  Orr.  I 
haven't  heard  that  town  hall  idea  spoken  of  since  An 
drew  Bolton's  time.  He  was  always  talking  about 
town  improvements;  wanted  a  town  hall  and  courses 
of  lectures,  and  a  fountain  playing  in  a  park,  and  a  fire- 
:ngine,  and  the  land  knows  what.  He  was  a  great 
/land  to  talk,  Andrew  Bolton  was.  And  you  see  how 
he  turned  out !  " 

"  And  mebbe  he'd  have  done  all  those  nice  things 
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for  Brookville,  Lois,  if  his  speculations  had  turned  out 
different,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett,  charitably.  "  I  always 
thought  Andrew  Bolton  meant  all  right.  Of  course 
he  had  to  invest  our  savings ;  banks  always  do,  Henry 
says." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  investing,  and  don't 
want  to,  either  —  not  the  kind  he  did,  anyhow,"  re 
torted  Lois  Daggett. 

She  arose  as  she  spoke,  brushing  the  crumbs  of 
sponge  cake  from  her  skirt. 

"  I  got  to  get  that  order  right  in,"  she  said :  "  five 
copies  —  or  was  it  six,  you  said?" 

"  I  think  I  could  use  six,"  murmured  Lydia. 

"  And  all  leather-bound !  Well,  now,  I  know  you 
won't  ever  be  sorry.  It's  one  of  those  works  any  in 
telligent  person  would  be  proud  to  own." 

"  I'm  sure  it  is,"  said  the  girl  gently. 

She  turned  to  Mrs.  Daggett. 

"  Can't  you  stay  awhile  longer  ?  I  —  I  should 
like—" 

"  Oh,  I  guess  Abby'd  better  come  right  along 
with  me,"  put  in  Lois  briskly  ..."  and  that  re 
minds  me,  do  you  want  to  pay  something  down  on  that 
order?  As  a  general  thing,  where  I  take  a  big 
order—" 

"Of  course  —  I'd  forgotten ;  I  always  prefer  to  pay 
in  advance." 

The  girl  opened  the  tall  desk  and  producing  a  roll 
of  bills  told  off  the  price  of  her  order  into  Miss  Dag- 
gett's  hand. 

"  I  should  think  you'd  be  almost  afraid  to  keep  so 

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much  ready  money  by  you,  with  all  those  men  workin' 
outside,"  she  commented. 

"  They're  all  Brookville  men,"  said  Lydia.  "  I  have 
to  have  money  to  pay  them  with.  Besides,  I  have 
Martha." 

"  You  mean  your  hired  girl,  I  suppose,"  inferred 
Miss  Daggett,  rubbing  her  nose  thoughtfully. 

"  She  isn't  exactly  —  a  servant,"  hesitated  Lydia. 
"  We  give  the  men  their  noon  meal,"  she  added. 
"  Martha  helps  me  with  that." 

"  You  give  them  their  dinner !  Well,  I  never ! 
Did  you  hear  that,  Abby  ?  She  gives  them  their  dinner. 
Didn't  you  know  men- folks  generally  bring  their  noon 
ings  in  a  pail?  Land!  I  don't  know  how  you  get 
hearty  victuals  enough  for  all  those  men.  Where  do 
they  eat  ?  " 

"  In  the  new  barn,"  said  Lydia,  smiling.  "  We  have 
a  cook  stove  out  there." 

"Ain't  that  just  lovely!"  beamed  Mrs.  Daggett, 
squeezing  the  girl's  slim  hand  in  both  her  own.  "  Most 
folks  wouldn't  go  to  the  trouble  of  doing  anything  so 
nice.  No  wonder  they're  hustling." 

"  Mebbe  they  won't  hustle  so  fast  toward  the  end  of 
the  job,"  said  Lois  Daggett.  "  You'll  find  men-folks 
are  always  ready  to  take  advantage  of  any  kind  of 
foolishness.  Come,  Abby ;  we  must  be  going.  You'll 
get  those  books  in  about  two  weeks,  Miss  Orr.  A  big 
order  takes  more  time,  I  always  tell  people." 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  Daggett.  But  wouldn't  you  — 
if  you  are  in  a  hurry,  you  know;  Mr.  Dodge  is  going 
to  the  village  in  the  automobile ;  we're  expecting  some 
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supplies  for  the  house.  He'll  be  glad  to  take  you." 
"  Who,  Jim  Dodge  ?  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  Jim 
Dodge  can  drive  an  auto !  I  never  stepped  foot  inside 
of  one  of  those  contraptions.  But  I  don't  know  but 
that  I  might's  well  die  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb." 

Lois  Daggett  followed  the  girl  from  the  room  in  a 
flutter  of  joyous  excitement. 

"  You  can  come  home  when  you  get  ready,  Abby," 
she  said  over  her  shoulder.  "  But  you  want  to  be  care 
ful  driving  that  horse  of  yours ;  he  might  cut  up  some 
thing  scandalous  if  he  was  to  meet  an  auto." 


CHAPTER  X 

MRS.  DAGGETT  was  sitting  by  the  window 
gazing  dreamily  out,  when  Lydia  returned 
after  witnessing  the  triumphant  departure 
of  the  promoter  of  Famous  People. 

"  It  kind  of  brings  it  all  back  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Daggett,  furtively  wiping  her  eyes.  "  It's  going  t' 
look  pretty  near's  it  used  to.  Only  I  remember  Mis* 
Bolton  used  to  have  a  flower  garden  all  along  that  stone 
wall  over  there;  she  was  awful  fond  of  flowers.  I 
remember  I  gave  her  some  roots  of  pinies  and  iris 
out  of  our  yard,  and  she  gave  me  a  new  kind  of  lilac 
bush  —  pink,  it  is,  and  sweet !  My !  you  can  smell  it  a 
mile  off  when  it's  in  blow." 

"  Then  you  knew  —  the  Bolton  family  ?  " 

The  girl's  blue  eyes  widened  wistfully  as  she  asked 
the  question. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  dear.  And  I  want  to  tell  you  — 
just  betwixt  ourselves  —  that  Andrew  Bolton  was  a 
real  nice  man ;  and  don't  you  let  folks  set  you  t'  thinking 
he  wa'n't.  Now  that  you're  going  to  live  right  here 
in  this  house,  my  dear,  seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  lot 
pleasanter  to  know  that  those  who  were  here  before 
you  were  just  good,  kind  folks  that  had  made  a  mis 
take.  I  was  saying  to  Henry  this  morning : '  I'm  going 
to  tell  her  some  of  the  nice  things  folks  has  seemed  to 

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forget  about  the  Boltons.  It  won't  do  any  harm/  I 
said.  '  And  it'll  be  cheerfuller  for  her/  Now  this 
room  we're  sitting  in  —  I  remember  lots  of  pleasant 
things  about  this  room.  'Twas  here  —  right  at  that 
desk  —  he  gave  us  a  check  to  fix  up  the  church.  He 
was  always  doing  things  like  that.  But  folks  don't 
seem  to  remember." 

"  Thank  you  so  much,  dear  Mrs.  Daggett,  for  tell 
ing  me,"  murmured  Lydia.  "  Indeed  it  will  be  — 
cheerfuller  for  me  to  know  that  Andrew  Bolton  wasn't 
always  —  a  thief.  I've  sometimes  imagined  him  walk 
ing  about  these  rooms.  .  .  .  One  can't  help  it,  you 
know,  in  an  old  house  like  this." 

Mrs.  Daggett  nodded  eagerly.  Here  was  one  to 
whom  she  might  impart  some  of  the  secret  thoughts 
and  imaginings  which  even  Maria  Dodge  would  have 
called  "  outlandish  "  : 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  Sometimes  I've  wondered  if 
—  if  mebbe  folks  don't  leave  something  or  other  after 
them  —  something  you  can't  see  nor  touch;  but  you 
can  sense  it,  just  as  plain,  in  your  mind.  But  land! 
I  don't  know  as  I'd  ought  to  mention  it;  of  course  you 
know  I  don't  mean  ghosts  and  like  that." 

"  You  mean  their  —  their  thoughts,  perhaps,"  hesi 
tated  Lydia.  "  I  can't  put  it  into  words ;  but  I  know 
what  you  mean." 

Mrs.  Daggett  patted  the  girl's  hand  kindly. 

"  I've  come  to  talk  to  you  about  the  wall  papers, 
dearie;  Henry  thought  mebbe  you'd  like  to  see  me, 
seeing  I  don't  forget  so  easy's  some.  This  room  was 
done  in  a  real  pretty  striped  paper  in  two  shades  of 

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buff.  There's  a  little  of  it  left  behind  that  door.  Mrs. 
Bolton  was  a  great  hand  to  want  things  cheerful.  She 
said  it  looked  kind  of  sunshiny,  even  on  a  dark  day. 
Poor  dear,  it  fell  harder  on  her  than  on  anybody  else 
when  the  crash  came.  She  died  the  same  week  they 
took  him  to  prison ;  and  fer  one,  I  was  glad  of  it." 

Mrs.  Daggett  wiped  her  kind  eyes. 

"  Mebbe  you'll  think  it's  a  terrible  thing  for  me  to 
say,"  she  added  hastily.  "  But  she  was  such  a  deli 
cate,  soft-hearted  sort  of  a  woman:  I  couldn't  help 
feelin'  th'  Lord  spared  her  a  deal  of  bitter  sorrow  by 
taking  her  away.  My!  It  does  bring  it  all  back  to 
me  so  —  the  house  and  the  yard,  and  all.  We'd  all 
got  used  to  seeing  it  a  ruin;  and  now —  Whatever 
put  it  in  your  head,  dearie,  to  want  things  put  back 
just  as  they  were  ?  Papa  was  telling  me  this  morning 
you  was  all  for  restoring  the  place.  He  thinks  'twould 
be  more  stylish  and  up-to-date  if  you  was  to  put  new- 
style  paper  on  the  walls,  and  let  him  furnish  it  up  for 
you  with  nice  golden  oak.  Henry's  got  real  good  taste. 
You'd  ought  to  see  our  sideboard  he  gave  me  Chris'- 
mas,  with  a  mirror  and  all." 

Having  thus  discharged  her  wifely  duty,  as  it  ap 
peared  to  her,  Mrs.  Daggett  promptly  turned  her  back 
upon  it. 

"  But  you  don't  want  any  golden  oak  sideboards  and 
like  that  in  this  house.  Henry  was  telling  me  all  about 
it,  and  how  you  were  set  on  getting  back  the  old  Bolton 
furniture." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  ?  "  asked  the  girl  eagerly. 
"  It  was  all  sold  about  here,  wasn't  it  ?  And  don't  you 

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think  if  I  was  willing  to  pay  a  great  deal  for  it  people 
would  — " 

"  'Course  they  would ! "  cried  Mrs.  Daggett,  with 
cheerful  assurance.  "  They'd  be  tickled  half  to  death 
to  get  money  for  it.  But,  you  see,  dearie,  it's  a  long 
time  ago,  and  some  folks  have  moved  away,  and  there's 
been  two  or  three  fires,  and  I  suppose  some  are  not  as 
careful  as  others ;  still  — " 

The  smile  faded  on  the  girl's  lips. 

"  But  I  can  get  some  of  it  back ;  don't  you  think  I 
can  ?  I  —  I've  quite  set  my  heart  on  —  restoring 
the  house.  I  want  it  just  as  it  used  to  be.  The  old 
furniture  would  suit  the  house  so  much  better;  don't 
you  think  it  would?" 

Mrs.  Daggett  clapped  her  plump  hands  excitedly. 

"  I've  just  thought  of  a  way ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"  And  I'll  bet  it'll  work,  too.  You  know  Henry  he  keeps 
th'  post  office;  an'  'most  everybody  for  miles  around 
comes  after  their  mail  to  th'  store.  I'll  tell  him  to 
put  up  a  sign,  right  where  everybody  will  see;  some 
thing  like  this :  '  Miss  Lydia  Orr  wants  to  buy  the  old 
furniture  of  the  Bolton  house.'  And  you  might  men 
tion  casual  you'd  pay  good  prices  for  it.  'Twas  real 
good,  solid  furniture,  I  remember.  .  .  .  Come  to  think 
of  it,  Mrs.  Bolton  collected  quite  a  lot  of  it  right  'round 
here.  She  was  a  city  girl  when  she  married  Andrew 
Bolton,  an'  she  took  a  great  interest  in  queer  old 
things.  She  bought  a  big  tall  clock  out  of  somebody's 
attic,  and  four-posted  beds,  the  kind  folks  used  to 
sleep  in,  an'  outlandish  old  cracked  china  plates  with 
scenes  on  'em.  I  recollect  I  gave  her  a  blue  and  white 

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teapot,  with  an  eagle  on  the  side  that  belonged  to  my 
grandmother.  She  thought  it  was  perfectly  elegant, 
and  kept  it  full  of  rose-leaves  and  spice  on  the  parlor 
mantelpiece.  Land!  I  hadn't  thought  of  that  teapot 
for  years  and  years.  I  don't  know  whatever  became  of 
it." 

The  sound  of  planes  and  hammers  filled  the  silence 
that  followed.  Lydia  was  standing  by  the  tall  carved 
chair,  her  eyes  downcast. 

"I'm  glad  you  thought  of  —  that  notice,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  If  Mr.  Daggett  will  see  to  it  for  me  — I'll 
stop  at  the  office  tomorrow.  And  now,  if  you  have 
time,  I'd  so  like  you  to  go  over  the  house  with  me. 
You  can  tell  me  about  the  wall  papers  and  — " 

Mrs.  Daggett  arose  with  cheerful  alacrity. 

"  I'd  like  nothing  better,"  she  declared.  "  I  ain't 
been  in  the  house  for  so  long.  Last  time  was  the  day 
of  the  auction ;  'twas  after  they  took  the  little  girl  away, 
I  remember.  .  .  .  Oh,  didn't  nobody  tell  you  ?  There 
was  one  child  —  a  real,  nice  little  girl.  I  forget  her 
name;  Mrs.  Bolton  used  to  call  her  Baby  and  Darling 
and  like  that.  She  was  an  awful  pretty  little  girl, 
about  as  old  as  my  Nellie.  I've  often  wondered  what 
became  of  her.  Some  of  her  relatives  took  her  away, 
after  her  mother  was  buried.  Poor  little  thing  —  her 
ma  dead  an'  her  pa  shut  up  in  prison  —  .  .  .  Oh !  yes ; 
this  was  the  parlor.  .  .  .  My!  to  think  how  the  years 
have  gone  by,  and  me  as  slim  as  a  match  then.  Now 
that's  what  I  call  a  handsome  mantel;  and  ain't  the 
marble  kept  real  pretty?  There  was  all-colored  rugs 
and  a  waxed  floor  in  here,  and  a  real  old-fashioned  sofa 


AN  ALABASTER  BOX 


in  that  corner  and  a  mahogany  table  with  carved  legs 
over  here,  and  long  lace  curtains  at  the  windows.  I  see 
they've  fixed  the  ceilings  as  good  as  new  and  scraped 
all  the  old  paper  off  the  walls.  There  used  to  be  some 
sort  of  patterned  paper  in  here.  I  can't  seem  to  think 
what  color  it  was." 

"  I  found  quite  a  fresh  piece  behind  the  door/'  said 
Lydia.  "  See ;  I've  put  all  the  good  pieces  from  the 
different  rooms  together,  and  marked  them.  I  was 
wondering  if  Mr.  Daggett  could  go  to  Boston  for  me? 
I'm  sure  he  could  match  the  papers  there.  You  could 
go,  too,  if  you  cared  to." 

"  To  Boston !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Daggett ;  "  me  and 
Henry?  Why,  Miss  Orr,  what  an  idea!  But  Henry 
couldn't  no  more  leave  the  post  office  —  he  ain't  never 
left  it  a  day  since  he  was  appointed  postmaster.  My, 
no!  'twouldn't  do  for  Henry  to  take  a  trip  clear  to 
Boston.  And  me  —  I'm  so  busy  I'd  be  like  a  fly  try 
ing  t'  get  off  sticky  paper.  ...  I  do  hate  to  see  'em 
struggle,  myself." 

She  followed  the  girl  up  the  broad  stair,  once  more 
safe  and  firm,  talking  steadily  all  the  way. 

There  were  four  large  chambers,  their  windows 
framing  lovely  vistas  of  stream  and  wood  and  meadow, 
with  the  distant  blue  of  the  far  horizon  melting  into  the 
summer  sky.  Mrs.  Daggett  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  wide  hall  and  looked  about  her  wonderingly. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said  slowly.  "  You  certainly  did 
show  good  sense  in  buying  this  old  house.  They 
don't  build  them  this  way  now-a-days.  That's  what  I 
said  to  Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle —  You  know  some 

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folks  thought  you  were  kind  of  foolish  not  to  buy  Mrs. 
Solomon  Black's  house  down  in  the  village.  But  if 
you're  going  to  live  here  all  alone,  dearie,  ain't  it  going 
to  be  kind  of  lonesome  —  all  these  big  rooms  for  a 
little  body  like  you?" 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  please,"  begged  Lydia.  "I  — • 
I've  been  wondering  which  room  was  his." 

"  You  mean  Andrew  Bolton's,  I  s'pose,"  said  Mrs. 
Daggett  reluctantly.  "  But  I  hope  you  won't  worry 
any  over  what  folks  tells  you  about  the  day  he  was 
taken  away.  My!  seems  as  if  'twas  yesterday." 

She  moved  softly  into  one  of  the  spacious,  sunny 
rooms  and  stood  looking  about  her,  as  if  her  eyes  be 
held  once  more  the  tragedy  long  since  folded  into  the 
past. 

"  I  ain't  going  to  tell  you  anything  sad,"  she  said 
under  her  breath.  "  It's  best  forgot.  This  was  their 
room;  ain't  it  nice  an'  cheerful?  I  like  a  southwest 
room  myself.  And  'tain't  a  bit  warm  here,  what  with 
the  breeze  sweeping  in  at  the  four  big  windows  and 
smelling  sweet  of  clover  an'  locust  blooms.  And  ain't 
it  lucky  them  trees  didn't  get  blown  over  last  winter?  " 

She  turned  abruptly  toward  the  girl. 

"  Was  you  thinking  of  sleeping  in  this  room,  dearie? 
It  used  to  have  blue  and  white  paper  on  it,  and  white 
paint  as  fresh  as  milk.  It'd  be  nice  and  pleasant  for 
a  young  lady,  I  should  think." 

Lydia  shook  her  head. 

"  Not,"  she  said  slowly,  "if  it  was  his  room.  I 
think  I'd  rather  —  which  was  the  little  girl's  room? 
You  said  there  was  a  child?  " 

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"  Now,  I'm  real  sorry  you  feel  that  way,"  sympa 
thized  Mrs.  Daggett,  "  but  I  don't  know  as  I  blame  you, 
the  way  folks  talk.  You'd  think  they'd  have  forgot  all 
about  it  by  now,  wouldn't  you  ?  But  land !  it  does  seem 
as  if  bad  thoughts  and  mean  thoughts,  and  like  that, 
was  possessed  to  fasten  right  on  to  folks ;  and  you  can't 
seem  to  shake  'em  off,  no  more  than  them  spiteful  little 
stick-tights  that  get  all  over  your  clo'es.  .  .  .  This  room 
right  next  belonged  to  their  baby.  Let  me  see;  she 
must  have  been  about  three  and  a  half  or  four  years 
old  when  they  took  her  away.  See,  there's  a  door  in 
between,  so  Mrs.  Bolton  could  get  to  her  quick  in  the 
night.  I  used  to  be  that  way,  too,  with  my  children. 
.  .  .  You  know  we  lost  our  two  little  girls  that  same 
winter,  three  and  five,  they  were.  But  I  know  I 
wanted  'em  right  where  I  could  hear  'em  if  they  asked 
for  a  drink  of  water,  or  like  that,  in  the  night.  Folks 
has  a  great  notion  now-a-days  of  putting  their  babies 
off  by  themselves  and  letting  them  cry  it  out,  as  they 
say.  But  I  couldn't  ever  do  that;  and  Mrs.  Andrew 
Bolton  she  wa'n't  that  kind  of  a  parent,  either  —  I 
don't  know  as  they  ought  to  be  called  mothers.  No, 
she  was  more  like  me  —  liked  to  tuck  the  blankets 
around  her  baby  in  the  middle  of  th'  night  an'  pat  her 
down  all  warm  and  nice.  I've  often  wondered  what 
became  of  that  poor  little  orphan  child.  We  never 
heard.  Like  enough  she  died.  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

And  Mrs.  Daggett  wiped  the  ready  tears  from  her 
eyes. 

"  But  I  guess  you'll  think  I'm  a  real  old  Aunty  Dole 
ful,  going  on  this  way,"  she  made  haste  to  add. 

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"There's  plenty  of  folks  in  Brookville  as  '11  tell 
you  how  stuck-up  an'  stylish  Mrs.  Andrew  Bolton  was, 
always  dressed  in  silk  of  an  afternoon  and  driving  out 
with  a  two-horse  team,  an'  keeping  two  hired  girls 
constant,  besides  a  man  to  work  in  her  flower  garden 
and  another  for  the  barn.  But  of  course  she  sup 
posed  they  were  really  rich  and  could  afford  it.  He 
never  let  on  to  her,  after  things  begun  to  go  to  pieces ; 
and  folks  blamed  her  for  it,  afterwards.  Her  heart 
was  weak,  and  he  knew  it,  all  along.  And  then  I  sup 
pose  he  thought  mebbe  things  would  take  a  turn.  .  .  . 
Yes;  the  paper  in  this  room  was  white  with  little 
wreaths  of  pink  roses  tied  up  with  blue  ribbons  all  over 
it.  'Twas  furnished  up  real  pretty  with  white  furni 
ture,  and  there  was  ruffled  muslin  curtains  with  dots 
on  'em  at  the  windows  and  over  the  bed ;  Mrs.  Andrew 
Bolton  certainly  did  fix  things  up  pretty,  and  to  think 
you're  going  to  have  it  just  the  same  way.  Well,  I 
will  say  you  couldn't  do  any  better.  .  .  .  But,  land! 
if  there  isn't  the  sun  going  down  behind  the  hill,  and 
me  way  out  here,  with  Henry's  supper  to  get,  and  Dolly 
champing  his  bit  impatient.  There's  one  lucky  thing, 
though;  he'll  travel  good,  going  towards  home;  he 
won't  stop  to  get  his  tail  over  the  lines,  neither." 

An  hour  later,  when  the  long  summer  twilight  was 
deepening  into  gloom,  Jim  Dodge  crossed  the  empty 
library  and  paused  at  the  open  door  of  the  room  be 
yond.  The  somber  light  from  the  two  tall  windows 
fell  upon  the  figure  of  the  girl.  She  was  sitting  be 
fore  Andrew  Bolton's  desk,  her  head  upon  her  folded 
arms.  Something  in  the  spiritless  droop  of  her  shoul- 

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ders  and  the  soft  dishevelment  of  her  fair  hair  sug 
gested  weariness  —  sleep,  perhaps.  But  as  the  young 
man  hesitated  on  the  threshold  the  sound  of  a  muffled 
sob  escaped  the  quiet  figure.  He  turned  noiselessly  and 
went  away,  sorry  and  ashamed,  because  unwittingly  he 
had  stumbled  upon  the  clew  he  had  long  been  seeking. 


CHAPTER  XI 

BESIDE  this  stone  wall  I  want  flowers,"  Lydia 
was  saying  to  her  landscape-gardener,  as  she 
persisted    in    calling    Jim    Dodge.     "  Holly 
hocks  and  foxgloves  and  pinies  —  I  shall  never  say 
peony  in  Brookville  —  and  pansies,   sweet  williams, 
lads'   love,   iris  and   sweetbrier.     Mrs.   Daggett  has 
promised  to  give  me  some  roots." 

He  avoided  her  eyes  as  she  faced  him  in  the  bright 
glow  of  the  morning  sunlight. 

"  Very  well,  Miss  Orr,"  he  said,  with  cold  respect. 
"  You  want  a  border  here  about  four  feet  wide,  filled 
with  old-fashioned  perennials." 

He  had  been  diligent  in  his  study  of  the  books  she 
had  supplied  him  with. 

"A  herbaceous  border  of  that  sort  in  front  of  the 
stone  wall  will  give  quite  the  latest  effect  in  country- 
house  decoration/'  he  went  on  professionally. 
"  Ramblers  of  various  colors  might  be  planted  at  the 
back,  and  there  should  be  a  mixture  of  bulbs  among 
the  taller  plants  to  give  color  in  early  spring." 

She  listened  doubtfully. 

"  I  don't  know  about  the  ramblers,"  she  said. 
"Were  there  ramblefs  —  twenty  years  ago?  I  want 
it  as  nearly  as  possible  just  as  it  was.  Mrs.  Daggett 
told  me  yesterday  about  the  flower-border  here.  You 

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—  of  course  you  don't  remember  the  place  at  all ;  do 
you?" 

He  reddened  slightly  under  her  intent  gaze. 

"  Oh,  I  remember  something  about  it,"  he  told  her ; 
"  the  garden  was  a  long  time  going  down.  There  were 
flowers  here  a  few  years  back ;  but  the  grass  and  weeds 
got  the  better  of  them." 

"  And  do  you  —  remember  the  Boltons  ?  "  she  per 
sisted.  "  I  was  so  interested  in  what  Mrs.  Daggett 
told  me  about  the  family  yesterday.  It  seems  strange 
to  think  no  one  has  lived  here  since.  And  now  that  I 

—  it  is  to  be  my  home,  I  can't  help  thinking  about 
them." 

"  You  should  have  built  a  new  house,"  said  Jim 
Dodge.  "  A  new  house  would  have  been  better  and 
cheaper,  in  the  end." 

He  thrust  his  spade  deep,  a  sign  that  he  considered 
the  conversation  at  an  end. 

"  Tell  one  of  the  other  men  to  dig  this,"  she  objected. 
"  I  want  to  make  a  list  of  the  plants  we  need  and  get 
the  order  out." 

"  I  can  do  that  tonight,  Miss  Orr,"  he  returned, 
going  on  with  his  digging.  "  The  men  are  busy  in  the 
orchards  this  morning." 

"  You  want  me  to  go  away,"  she  inferred  swiftly. 

He  flung  down  his  spade. 

"  It  is  certainly  up  to  me  to  obey  orders,"  he  said. 
"  Pardon  me,  if  I  seem  to  have  forgotten  the  fact. 
Shall  we  make  the  list  now  ?  " 

Inwardly  he  was  cursing  himself  for  his  stupidity. 
Perhaps  he  had  been  mistaken  the  night  before.  His 


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fancy  had  taken  a  swift  leap  in  the  dark  and  landed 
—  where?  There  was  a  sort  of  scornful  honesty  in 
Jim  Dodge's  nature  which  despised  all  manner  of 
shams  and  petty  deceits.  His  code  also  included  a 
strict  minding  of  his  own  business.  He  told  himself 
rather  sharply  that  he  was  a  fool  for  suspecting  that 
Lydia  Orr  was  other  than  she  had  represented  herself 
to  be.  She  had  been  crying  the  night  before.  What 
of  that?  Other  girls  cried  over  night  and  smiled  the 
next  morning  —  his  sister  Fanny,  for  example.  It 
was  an  inexplicable  habit  of  women.  His  mother  had 
once  told  him,  rather  vaguely,  that  it  did  her  good  to 
have  a  regular  crying-spell.  It  relieved  her  nerves, 
she  said,  and  sort  of  braced  her  up.  ... 

"  Of  course  I  didn't  mean  that,"  Lydia  was  at  some 
pains  to  explain,  as  the  two  walked  toward  the  veranda 
where  there  were  chairs  and  a  table. 

She  was  looking  fair  and  dainty  in  a  gown  of  some 
thin  white  stuff,  through  which  her  neck  and  arms 
showed  slenderly. 

"  It's  too  warm  to  dig  in  the  ground  this  morning," 
she  decided.  "  And  anyway,  planning  the  work  is 
far  more  important." 

"  Than  doing  it?  "  he  asked  quizzically.  "  If  we'd 
done  nothing  but  plan  all  this ;  why  you  see  — " 

He  made  a  large  gesture  which  included  the  car 
penters  at  work  on  the  roof,  painters  perilously  poised 
on  tall  ladders  and  a  half  dozen  men  busy  spraying  the 
renovated  orchards. 

"  I  see,"  she  returned  with  a  smile,  " —  now  that 
you've  so  kindly  pointed  it  out  to  me." 


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He  leveled  a  keen  glance  at  her.  It  was  impossible 
not  to  see  her  this  morning  in  the  light  of  what  he 
thought  he  had  discovered  the  night  before. 

"  I've  done  nothing  but  make  plans  all  my  life,"  she 
went  on  gravely.  "  Ever  since  I  can  remember  I've 
been  thinking  —  thinking  and  planning  what  I  should 
do  when  I  grew  up.  It  seemed  such  a  long,  long  time 

—  being  just  a  little  girl,  I  mean,  and  not  able  to  do 
what  I  wished.     But  I  kept  on  thinking  and  planning, 
and  all  the  while  I  was  growing  up;  and  then  at  last 

—  it  all  happened  as  I  wished." 

She  appeared  to  wait  for  his  question.  But  he  re 
mained  silent,  staring  at  the  blue  rim  of  distant  hills. 

"  You  don't  ask  me  —  you  don't  seem  to  care  what 
I  was  planning,"  she  said,  her  voice  timid  and  un 
certain. 

He  glanced  quickly  at  her.  Something  in  her  look 
stirred  him  curiously.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that 
her  appeal  and  his  instant  response  to  it  were  as  old 
as  the  race. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me,"  he  urged.  "  Tell  me 
everything !  " 

She  drew  a  deep  breath,  her  eyes  misty  with  dreams. 

"  For  a  long  time  I  taught  school,"  she  went  on, 
"  but  I  couldn't  save  enough  that  way.  I  never  could 
have  saved  enough,  even  if  I  had  lived  on  bread  and 
water.  I  wanted  —  I  needed  a  great  deal  of  money, 
and  I  wasn't  clever  nor  particularly  well  educated. 
Sometimes  I  thought  if  I  could  only  marry  a  million 


aire—" 


He  stared  at  her  incredulously. 

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"  You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said  with  some  impa 
tience. 

She  sighed. 

"  I'm  telling  you  just  what  happened/'  she  reminded 
him.  "  It  seemed  the  only  way  to  get  what  I  wanted. 
I  thought  I  shouldn't  mind  that,  or  —  anything,  if  I 
could  only  have  as  much  money  as  I  needed." 

A  sense  of  sudden  violent  anger  flared  up  within 
him.  Did  the  girl  realize  what  she  was  saying? 

She  glanced  up  at  him. 

"  I  never  meant  to  tell  any  one  about  that  part  of 
it,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "  And  —  it  wasn't  necessary, 
after  all ;  I  got  the  money  another  way." 

He  bit  off  the  point  of  a  pencil  he  had  been  sharpen 
ing  with  laborious  care. 

"  I  should  probably  never  have  had  a  chance  to 
marry  a  millionaire,"  she  concluded  reminiscently. 
"  I'm  not  beautiful  enough." 

With  what  abominable  clearness  she  understood 
the  game:  the  marriage-market;  the  buyer  and  the 
price. 

"I  —  didn't  suppose  you  were  like  that,"  he  mut 
tered,  after  what  seemed  a  long  silence. 

She  seemed  faintly  surprised. 

"Of  course  you  don't  know  me,"  she  said  quickly. 
"  Does  any  man  know  any  woman,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  They  think  they  do,"  he  stated  doggedly ;  "  and 
that  amounts  to  the  same  thing." 

His  thoughts  reverted  for  an  uncomfortable  instant 
to  Wesley  Elliot  and  Fanny.  It  was  only  too  easy  to 
see  through  Fanny. 

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"  Most  of  them  are  simple  souls,  and  thank  heaven 
for  it!" 

His  tone  was  fervently  censorious. 

She  smiled  understandingly. 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  to  tell  you  further  that  a  rich 
man  —  not  a  millionaire ;  but  rich  enough  —  actually 
did  ask  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  refused." 

"H'mph!" 

"  But,"  she  added  calmly,  "  I  think  I  should  have 
married  him,  if  I  had  not  had  money  left  me  first  —  be 
fore  he  asked  me,  I  mean.  I  knew  all  along  that  what 
I  had  determined  to  do,  I  could  do  best  alone." 

He  stared  at  her  from  under  gathered  brows.  He 
still  felt  that  curious  mixture  of  shame  and  anger 
burning  hotly  within. 

"  Just  why  are  you  telling  me  all  this  ?  "  he  demanded 
roughly. 

She  returned  his  look  quietly. 

"  Because,"  she  said,  "  you  have  been  trying  to 
guess  my  secret  for  a  long  time  and  you  have  suc 
ceeded  ;  haven't  you  ?  " 

He  was  speechless. 

"  You  have  been  wondering  about  me,  all  along.  I 
could  see  that,  of  course.  I  suppose  everybody  in 
Brookville  has  been  wondering  and  —  and  talking.  I 
meant  to  be  frank  and  open  about  it  —  to  tell  right 
out  who  I  was  and  what  I  came  to  do.  But  —  some 
how  —  I  couldn't.  ...  It  didn't  seem  possible,  when 
everybody  —  you  see  I  thought  it  all  happened  so  long 
ago  people  would  have  forgotten.  I  supposed  they 
would  be  just  glad  to  get  their  money  back.  I  meant 

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to  give  it  to  them  —  all,  every  dollar  of  it.  I  didn't 
care  if  it  took  all  I  had.  .  .  .  And  then  —  I  heard  you 
last  night  when  you  crossed  the  library.  I  hoped  — 
you  would  ask  me  why  —  but  you  didn't.  I  thought, 
first,  of  telling  Mrs.  Daggett;  she  is  a  kind  soul.  I 
had  to  tell  someone,  because  he  is  coming  home  soon, 
and  I  may  need  —  help." 

Her  eyes  were  solemn,  beseeching,  compelling. 

His  anger  died  suddenly,  leaving  only  a  sort  of  in 
dignant  pity  for  her  unfriended  youth. 

"  You  are  — "  he  began,  then  stopped  short.  A 
painter  was  swiftly  descending  his  ladder,  whistling 
as  he  came. 

"  My  name,"  she  said,  without  appearing  to  notice, 
"  is  Lydia  Orr  Bolton.  No  one  seems  to  remember  — 
perhaps  they  didn't  know  my  mother's  name  was  Orr, 
My  uncle  took  me  away  from  here.  I  was  only  a 
baby.  It  seemed  best  to — " 

"  Where  are  they  now  ?  "  he  asked  guardedly. 

The  painter  had  disappeared  behind  the  house.  But 
he  could  hear  heavy  steps  on  the  roof  over  their  heads. 

"Both  are  dead,"  she  replied  briefly.  "No  one 
knew  my  uncle  had  much  money;  we  lived  quite  sim 
ply  and  unpretentiously  in  South  Boston.  They  never 
told  me  about  the  money;  and  all  those  years  I  was 
praying  for  it !  Well,  it  came  to  me  —  in  time." 

His  eyes  asked  a  pitying  question. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  sighed.  "I  knew  about  father. 
They  used  to  take  me  to  visit  him  in  the  prison.  Of 
course  I  didn't  understand,  at  first.  But  gradually, 
as  I  grew  older,  I  began  to  realize  what  had  happened 

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—  to  him  and  to  me.  It  was  then  I  began  to  make 
plans.  He  would  be  free,  sometime;  he  would  need 
a  home.  Once  he  tried  to  escape,  with  some  other 
men.  A  guard  shot  my  father;  he  was  in  the  prison- 
hospital  a  long  time.  They  let  me  see  him  then  with 
out  bars  between,  because  they  were  sure  he  would 
die." 

"  For  God's  sake,"  he  interrupted  hoarsely.  "  Was 
there  no  one — ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  That  was  after  my  aunt  died :  I  went  alone. 
They  watched  me  closely  at  first;  but  afterward  they 
were  kinder.  He  used  to  talk  about  home  —  always 
about  home.  He  meant  this  house,  I  found.  It  was 
then  I  made  up  my  mind  to  do  anything  to  get  the 
money.  .  .  .  You  see  I  knew  he  could  never  be  happy 
here  unless  the  old  wrongs  were  righted  first.  I  saw 
I  must  do  all  that;  and  when,  after  my  uncle's  death, 
I  found  that  I  was  rich  —  really  rich,  I  came  here 
as  soon  as  I  could.  There  wasn't  any  time  to 
lose." 

She  fell  silent,  her  eyes  shining  luminously  under 
half  closed  lids.  She  seemed  unconscious  of  his  gaze 
riveted  upon  her  face.  It  was  as  if  a  curtain  had  been 
drawn  aside  by  her  painful  effort.  He  was  seeing  her 
clearly  now  and  without  cloud  of  passion  —  in  all  her 
innocence,  her  sadness,  set  sacredly  apart  from  other 
women  by  the  long  devotion  of  her  thwarted  youth. 
An  immense  compassion  took  possession  of  him.  He 
could  have  fallen  at  her  feet  praying  her  forgiveness 
for  his  mean  suspicions,  his  harsh  judgment. 

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The  sound  of  hammers  on  the  veranda  roof  above 
their  heads  appeared  to  rouse  her. 

"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  tell  —  everybody?" 
she  asked  hurriedly. 

He  considered  her  question  in  silence  for  a  moment. 
The  bitterness  against  Andrew  Bolton  had  grown  and 
strengthened  with  the  years  into  something  rigid,  in 
exorable.  Since  early  boyhood  he  had  grown  accus 
tomed  to  the  harsh,  unrelenting  criticisms,  the  brutal 
epithets  applied  to  this  man  who  had  been  trusted 
with  money  and  had  defaulted.  Even  children,  born 
long  after  the  failure,  reviled  the  name  of  the  man 
who  had  made  their  hard  lot  harder.  It  had  been 
the  juvenile  custom  to  throw  stones  at  the  house  he 
had  lived  in.  He  remembered  with  fresh  shame  the 
impish  glee  with  which,  in  company  with  other  boys 
of  his  own  age,  he  had  trampled  the  few  surviving 
flowers  and  broken  down  the  shrubs  in  the  garden. 
The  hatred  of  Bolton,  like  some  malignant  growth, 
had  waxed  monstrous  from  what  it  preyed  upon,  ruin 
ing  and  distorting  the  simple  kindly  life  of  the  village. 
She  was  waiting  for  his  answer. 

"  It  would  seem  so  much  more  honest,"  she  said  in 
a  tired  voice.  "  Now  they  can  only  think  me  eccentric, 
foolishly  extravagant,  lavishly  generous  —  when  I  am 
trying —  I  didn't  dare  to  ask  Deacon  Whittle  or 
Judge  Fulsom  for  a  list  of  the  creditors,  so  I  paid  a 
large  sum  —  far  more  than  they  would  have  asked 
—  for  the  house.  And  since  then  I  have  bought  the 
old  bank  building.  I  should  like  to  make  a  library 
there." 

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"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  said  huskily. 

"  Then  the  furniture  —  I  shall  pay  a  great  deal  for 
that.  I  want  the  house  to  look  just  as  it  used  to,  when 
father  conies  home.  You  see  he  had  an  additional  sen 
tence  for  trying  to  escape  and  for  conspiracy ;  and  since 
then  his  mind  —  he  doesn't  seem  to  remember  every 
thing.  Sometimes  he  calls  me  Margaret.  He  thinks 
I  am  —  mother." 

Her  voice  faltered  a  little. 

"  You  mustn't  tell  them,"  he  said  vehemently. 
"You  mustn't!" 

He  saw  with  terrible  clearness  what  it  would  be 
like:  the  home-coming  of  the  half -imbecile  criminal, 
and  the  staring  eyes,  the  pointing  ringers  of  all  Brook- 
ville  leveled  at  him.  She  would  be  overborne  by  the 
shame  of  it  all  —  trampled  like  a  flower  in  the  mire. 

She  seemed  faintly  disappointed. 

"  But  I  would  far  rather  tell,"  she  persisted.  "  I 
have  had  so  much  to  conceal  —  all  my  life!  " 

She  flung  out  her  hands  in  a  gesture  of  utter  weari 
ness. 

"  I  was  never  allowed  to  mention  father  to  anyone," 
she  went  on.  "  My  aunt  was  always  pointing  out 
what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  for  any  one  to  find 
out  —  who  I  was.  She  didn't  want  me  to  know ;  but 
uncle  insisted.  I  think  he  was  sorry  for  —  father. 
.  .  .  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  it  is  like  to  be  in  prison 
for  years  —  to  have  all  the  manhood  squeezed  out  of 
one,  drop  by  drop!  I  think  if  it  hadn't  been  for  me 
he  would  have  died  long  ago.  I  used  to  pretend  I 
was  very  gay  and  happy  when  I  went  to  see  him.  He 

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wanted  me  to  be  like  that.  It  pleased  him  to  think  my 
life  had  not  been  clouded  by  what  he  called  his  mis 
take.  ...  He  didn't  intend  to  wreck  the  bank,  Mr. 
Dodge.  He  thought  he  was  going  to  make  the  village 
rich  and  prosperous." 

She  leaned  forward.  "  I  have  learned  to  smile  dur 
ing  all  these  years.  But  now,  I  want  to  tell  every 
body  —  I  long  to  be  free  from  pretending !  Can't  you 
see?" 

Something  big  and  round  in  his  throat  hurt  him  so 
that  he  could  not  answer  at  once.  He  clenched  his 
hands,  enraged  by  the  futility  of  his  pity  for  her. 

"  Mrs.  Daggett  seems  a  kind  soul,"  she  murmured. 
"  She  would  be  my  friend.  I  am  sure  of  it.  But  — 
the  others—" 

She  sighed. 

"  I  used  to  fancy  how  they  would  all  come  to  the 
station  to  meet  him  —  after  I  had  paid  everybody,  I 
mean  —  how  they  would  crowd  about  him  and  take  his 
hand  and  tell  him  they  were  glad  it  was  all  over;  then 
I  would  bring  him  home,  and  he  would  never  even 
guess  it  had  stood  desolate  during  all  these  years.  He 
has  forgotten  so  much  already ;  but  he  remembers  home 
—  oh,  quite  perfectly.  I  went  to  see  him  last  week, 
and  he  spoke  of  the  gardens  and  orchards.  That  is 
how  I  knew  how  to  have  things  planted :  he  told  me." 

He  got  hastily  to  his  feet:  her  look,  her  voice  — 
the  useless  smart  of  it  all  was  swiftly  growing  un 
bearable. 

"  You  must  wait  —  I  must  think ! "  he  said  un 
steadily.  "  You  ought  not  to  have  told  me." 

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"  Do  you  think  I  should  have  told  the  minister,  in 
stead?"  she  asked  rather  piteously.  "He  has  been 
very  kind ;  but  somehow  — " 

"What!     Wesley  Elliot?" 

His  face  darkened. 

"Thank  heaven  you  did  not  tell  him!  I  am  at 
least  no—" 

He  checked  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  See  here,"  he  said :  "  You  —  you  mustn't  speak 
to  any  one  of  what  you  have  told  me  —  not  for  the 
present,  anyway.  I  want  you  to  promise  me." 

Her  slight  figure  sagged  wearily  against  the  back 
of  her  chair.  She  was  looking  up  at  him  like  a  child 
spent  with  an  unavailing  passion  of  grief. 

"  I  have  promised  that  so  many  times,"  she  mur 
mured  :  "  I  have  concealed  everything  so  long  —  it 
will  be  easier  for  me." 

"  It  will  be  easier  for  you,"  he  agreed  quickly ;  "  and 
—  perhaps  better,  on  the  whole." 

"  But  they  will  not  know  they  are  being  paid  — 
they  won't  understand  — " 

"That  makes  no  difference,"  he  decided.  "It 
would  make  them,  perhaps,  less  contented  to  know 
where  the  money  was  coming  from.  Tell  me,  does 
your  servant  —  this  woman  you  brought  from  Bos 
ton  ;  does  she  know  ?  " 

"  You  mean  Martha  ?  I  —  I'm  not  sure.  She  was 
a  servant  in  my  uncle's  home  for  years.  She  wanted 
to  live  with  me,  so  I  sent  for  her.  I  never  spoke  to 
her  about  —  father.  She  seems  devoted  to  me.  I 
have  thought  it  would  be  necessary  to  tell  her  —  be- 

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fore —  He  is  coming  in  September.  Everything 
will  be  finished  by  then." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  blankly  on  the  hedge;  some 
thing  —  a  horse's  ears,  perhaps  —  was  bobbing  slowly 
up  and  down;  a  faint  rattle  of  wheels  came  to  their 
ears. 

"  Don't  tell  anyone,  yet,"  he  urged,  and  stepped 
down  from  the  veranda,  his  unseeing  gaze  still  fixed 
upon  the  slow  advance  of  those  bobbing  ears. 

"  Someone  is  coming,"  she  said. 

He  glanced  at  her,  marveling  at  the  swift  transition 
in  her  face.  A  moment  before  she  had  been  listless, 
sad,  disheartened  by  his  apparent  disapproval  of  her 
plans.  Now  all  at  once  the  cloud  had  vanished;  she 
was  once  more  cheerful,  calm,  even  smiling. 

She  too  had  been  looking  and  had  at  once  recognized 
the  four  persons  seated  in  the  shabby  old  carryall 
which  at  that  moment  turned  in  at  the  gate. 

"  I  am  to  have  visitors,"  she  said  tranquilly. 

His  eyes  reluctantly  followed  hers.  There  were 
four  women  in  the  approaching  vehicle. 

As  on  another  occasion,  the  young  man  beat  a  swift 
retreat. 


CHAPTER  XII 

I  AM  sure  I  don't  know  what  you'll  think  of  us 
gadding  about  in  the  morning  so,"  began  Mrs. 
Dix,  as  she  caught  sight  of  Lydia. 

Mrs.  Dix  was  sitting  in  the  back  seat  of  the  carryall 
with  Mrs.  Dodge.  The  two  girls  were  in  front. 
Lydia  noticed  mechanically  that  both  were  freshly 
gowned  in  white  and  that  Fanny,  who  was  driving, 
eyed  her  with  haughty  reserve  from  under  the  brim 
of  her  flower-laden  hat.  Ellen  Dix  had  turned  her 
head  to  gaze  after  Jim  Dodge's  retreating  figure;  her 
eyes  returned  to  Lydia  with  an  expression  of  sulky 
reluctance. 

"  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Lydia.  "  Won't  you 
come  in?" 

"I  should  like  to,"  said  Mrs.  Dodge.  "Jim 
has  been  telling  us  about  the  improvements,  all 
along." 

"  It  certainly  does  look  nice,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Dix. 
"  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  possible,  in  such  a  little 
time,  too.  Just  cramp  that  wheel  a  little  more, 
Fanny." 

The  two  older  women  descended  from  the  carryall 
and  began  looking  eagerly  around. 

"  Just  see  how  nice  the  grass  looks,"  said  Mrs. 
Dodge.  "And  the  flowers!  My!  I  didn't  suppose 

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Jim  was  that  smart  at  fixing  things  up.  .  .  .  Aren't 
you  going  to  get  out,  girls?  " 

The  two  girls  still  sat  on  the  high  front  seat  of 
the  carryall;  both  were  gazing  at  Lydia  in  her  simple 
morning  frock.  There  were  no  flowers  on  Lydia's 
Panama  hat ;  nothing  but  a  plain  black  band ;  but  it  had 
an  air  of  style  and  elegance.  Fanny  was  wishing  she 
had  bought  a  plain  hat  without  roses.  Ellen  tossed 
her  dark  head: 

"  I  don't  know/'  she  said.  "  You  aren't  going  to 
stay  long ;  are  you,  mother  ?  " 

"  For  pity  sake,  Ellen !  "  expostulated  Mrs.  Dodge 
briskly.  "Of  course  you'll  get  out,  and  you,  too, 
Fanny.  The  horse'll  stand." 

"  Please  do !  "  entreated  Lydia. 

Thus  urged,  the  girls  reluctantly  descended. 
Neither  was  in  the  habit  of  concealing  her  feelings 
under  the  convenient  cloak  of  society  observance,  and 
both  were  jealously  suspicious  of  Lydia  Orr.  Fanny 
had  met  her  only  the  week  before,  walking  with  Wes 
ley  Elliot  along  the  village  street.  And  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black  had  told  Mrs.  Fulsom,  and  Mrs.  Fulsom  had 
told  Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle,  and  Mrs.  Whittle  had  told 
another  woman,  who  had  felt  it  to  be  her  Christian 
duty  (however  unpleasant)  to  inform  Fanny  that  the 
minister  was  "  payin'  attention  to  Miss  Orr." 

"Of  course,"  the  woman  had  pointed  out,  "  it  wasn't 
to  be  wondered  at,  special,  seeing  the  Orr  girl  had 
every  chance  in  the  world  to  catch  him  —  living  right 
in  the  same  house  with  him."  Then  she  had  further 
stated  her  opinions  of  men  in  general  for  Fanny's  bene- 


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fit.  All  persons  of  the  male  sex,  according  to  this 
woman,  were  easily  put  upon,  deceived  and  otherwise 
led  astray  by  artful  young  women  from  the  city,  who 
were  represented  as  perpetually  on  the  lookout  for  easy 
marks,  like  Wesley  Elliot. 

"  He  ain't  any  different  from  other  men,  if  he  is 
a  minister,"  said  she  with  a  comprehensive  sniff. 
"  They're  all  alike,  as  far  as  I  can  find  out :  anybody 
that's  a  mind  to  soft-soap  them  and  flatter  them 
into  thinkin'  they're  something  great  can  lead  them 
right  around  by  the  nose.  And  besides,  she's  got 
money! " 

Fanny  had  affected  a  haughty  indifference  to  the  do 
ings  of  Wesley  Elliot,  which  did  not  for  a  moment  de 
ceive  her  keen-eyed  informer. 

"Of  course,  anybody  with  eyes  in  their  heads  can 
see  what's  taken  place,"  compassionated  she,  impaling 
the  unfortunate  Fanny  on  the  prongs  of  her  sympathy. 
"  My !  I  was  telling  George  only  yesterday,  I  thought 
it  was  a  perfect  shame!  and  somebody  ought  to  speak 
out  real  plain  to  the  minister." 

Whereat  Fanny  had  been  goaded  into  wishing  the 
woman  would  mind  her  own  business!  She  did  wish 
everybody  would  leave  her  and  her  affairs  alone !  Peo 
ple  had  no  right  to  talk !  As  for  speaking  to  the  minis 
ter  ;  let  any  one  dare  — ! 

As  for  Ellen  Dix,  she  had  never  quite  forgiven  Lydia 
for  innocently  acquiring  the  fox  skin  and  she  had  by 
now  almost  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  passionately 
in  love  with  Jim  Dodge.  She  had  always  liked  him 
«—  at  least,  she  had  not  actively  disliked  him,  as  some 

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of  the  other  girls  professed  to  do.  She  had  found  his 
satirical  tongue,  his  keen  eyes  and  his  real  or  affected 
indifference  to  feminine  wiles  pleasantly  stimulating. 
There  was  some  fun  in  talking  to  Jim  Dodge.  But 
of  late  she  had  not  been  afforded  the  opportunity. 
Fanny  had  explained  to  Ellen  that  Jim  was  working 
terribly  hard,  often  rising  at  three  and  four  in  the 
morning  to  work  on  his  own  farm,  and  putting  in  long 
days  at  the  Bolton  place. 

"  She  seems  to  have  most  of  the  men  in  Brookville 
doing  for  her,"  Ellen  had  remarked  coldly. 

Then  the  girls  had  exchanged  cautious  glances. 

"  There's  something  awfully  funny  about  her  com 
ing  here,  anyway,"  said  Ellen.  "  Everybody  thinks 
it's  queer." 

"  I  expect  she  had  a  reason,"  said  Fanny,  avoiding 
Ellen's  eyes. 

After  which  brief  interchange  of  opinion  they  had 
twined  their  arms  about  each  other's  waists  and 
squeezed  wordless  understanding  and  sympathy. 
Henceforth,  it  was  tacitly  understood  between  the  two 
girls  that  singly  and  collectively  they  did  not  "  like  " 
Lydia  Orr. 

Lydia  understood  without  further  explanation  that 
she  was  not  to  look  to  her  nearest  neighbors  for  either 
friendship  or  the  affection  she  so  deeply  craved.  Both 
Ellen  and  Fanny  had  passed  the  place  every  day  since 
its  restoration  began ;  but  not  once  had  either  betrayed 
the  slightest  interest  or  curiosity  in  what  was  going 
on  beyond  the  barrier  of  the  hedge.  To  be  sure,  Fanny 
had  once  stopped  to  speak  to  her  brother;  but  when 

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Lydia  had  hurried  hopefully  out  to  greet  her  it  was 
only  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  girl's  back  as  she  walked 
quickly  away. 

Jim  Dodge  had  explained,  with  some  awkwardness, 
that  Fanny  was  in  a  hurry.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  now,  I'll  tell  you,  Miss  Orr,"  Mrs.  Dix  was 
saying,  as  all  five  women  walked  slowly  toward  the 
house.  "  I  was  talking  with  Abby  Daggett,  and  she 
was  telling  me  about  your  wanting  to  get  back  the  old 
furniture  that  used  to  be  in  the  house.  It  seems  Henry 
Daggett  has  put  up  a  notice  in  the  post  office;  but  so 
far,  he  says,  not  very  many  pieces  have  been  heard 
from.  You  know  the  men- folks  generally  go  after 
the  mail,  and  men  are  slow ;  there's  no  denying  that. 
As  like  as  not  they  haven't  even  mentioned  seeing  the 
notice  to  the  folks  at  home." 

"  That's  so,"  confirmed  Mrs.  Dodge,  nodding  her 
head.  "  I  don't  know  as  Jim  would  ever  tell  us  any 
thing  that  happened  from  morning  till  night.  We 
just  have  to  pump  things  out  of  him ;  don't  we,  Fanny? 
He'd  never  tell  without  we  did.  His  father  was  just 
the  same." 

Fanny  looked  annoyed,  and  Ellen  squeezed  her  arm 
with  an  amused  giggle. 

"  I  didn't  know,  mother,  there  was  anything  we 
wanted  to  know,  particularly,"  she  said  coldly. 

"  Well,  you  know  both  of  us  have  been  real  in 
terested  in  the  work  here,"  protested  Mrs.  Dodge,  won- 
deringly.  "  I  remember  you  was  asking  Jim  only  last 
night  if  Miss  Orr  was  really  going  to  — " 

"  I  hope  you'll  like  to  see  the  house,"  said  Lydia,  as 

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if  she  had  not  heard;  "of  course,  being  here  every 
day  I  don't  notice  the  changes  as  you  might." 

"  You  aren't  living  here  yet,  are  you?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Dix.  "  I  understood  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  to  say  you 
weren't  going  to  leave  her  for  awhile  yet." 

"  No ;  I  shall  be  there  nights  and  Sundays  till  every 
thing  is  finished  here,"  said  Lydia.  "  Mrs.  Black 
makes  me  very  comfortable." 

"  Well,  I  think  most  of  us  ladies  had  ought  to  give 
you  a  vote  of  thanks  on  account  of  feeding  the  men- 
folks,  noons,"  put  in  Mrs.  Dodge.  "  It  saves  a  lot  of 
time  not  to  have  to  look  after  a  dinner-pail." 

"  Mother,"  interrupted  Fanny  in  a  thin,  sharp  voice, 
quite  unlike  her  own,  "  you  know  Jim  always  comes 
home  to  his  dinner." 

"Well,  what  if  he  does;  I  was  speaking  for  the 
rest  of  th'  women,"  said  Mrs.  Dodge.  "  I'm  sure  it's 
very  kind  of  Miss  Orr  to  think  of  such  a  thing  as 
cooking  a  hot  dinner  for  all  those  hungry  men." 

Mrs.  Dodge  had  received  a  second  check  from  the 
assignees  that  very  morning  from  the  sale  of  the  old 
bank  building,  and  she  was  proportionately  cheerful 
and  content. 

"  Well ;  if  this  isn't  handsome ! "  cried  Mrs.  Dix, 
pausing  in  the  hall  to  look  about  her.  "  I  declare  I'd 
forgotten  how  it  used  to  look.  This  is  certainly  bet 
ter  than  having  an  old  ruin  standing  here.  But,  of 
course  it  brings  back  old  days." 

She  sighed,  her  dark,  comely  face  clouding  with 
sorrow. 

"  You  know,"  she  went  on,  turning  confidentially  to 


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Lydia,  "  that  dreadful  bank  failure  was  the  real  cause 
of  my  poor  husband's  death.  He  never  held  up  his 
head  after  that.  They  suspected  at  first  he  was  im 
plicated  in  the  steal.  But  Mr.  Dix  wasn't  anything 
like  Andrew  Bolton.  No ;  indeed !  He  wouldn't  have 
taken  a  cent  that  belonged  to  anybody  else  —  not  if 
he  was  to  die  for  it !  " 

"  That's  so,"  confirmed  Mrs.  Dodge.  "  What  An 
drew  Bolton  got  was  altogether  too  good  for  him. 
Come  right  down  to  it,  he  wasn't  no  better  than  a  mur 
derer!" 

And  she  nodded  her  head  emphatically. 

Fanny  and  Ellen,  who  stood  looking  on,  reddened 
impatiently  at  this : 

"  I'm  sick  and  tired  of  hearing  about  Andrew  Bol 
ton,"  complained  Ellen.  "  I've  heard  nothing  else 
since  I  can  remember.  It's  a  pity  you  bought  this 
house,  Miss  Orr:  I  heard  Mr.  Elliot  say  it  was  like 
stirring  up  a  horrid,  muddy  pool.  Not  very  compli 
mentary  to  Brookville ;  but  then  — " 

"  Don't  you  think  people  will  —  forget  after  a 
while  ?  "  asked  Lydia,  her  blue  eyes  fixed  appealingly 
on  the  two  young  faces.  "  I  don't  see  why  every 
body  should — " 

"Well,  if  you'd  fixed  the  house  entirely  different," 
said  Mrs.  Dix.  "  But  having  it  put  back,  just  as  it 
was,  and  wanting  the  old  furniture  and  all  —  what 
ever  put  that  into  your  head,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  heard  it  was  handsome  and  old  —  I  like  old 
things.  And,  of  course,  it  was  —  more  in  keeping  to 
restore  the  house  as  it  was,  than  to  — " 

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"  Well,  I  s'pose  that's  so,"  conceded  Mrs.  Dodge, 
her  quick  dark  eyes  busy  with  the  renovated  interior. 
"  I'd  sort  of  forgot  how  it  did  look  when  the  Boltons 
was  livin'  here.  But  speaking  of  furniture ;  I  see  Mrs. 
Judge  Fulsom  let  you  have  the  old  sofa.  I  remember 
she  got  it  at  the  auction;  she's  kept  it  in  her  parlor 


ever  since." 


"  Yes,"  said  Lydia.  "  I  was  only  too  happy  to  give 
a  hundred  dollars  for  the  sofa.  It  has  been  excel 
lently  preserved." 

"  A  hundred  dollars !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Dix.     "  Well !  " 

Mrs.  Dodge  giggled  excitedly,  like  a  young  girl. 

"  A  hundred  dollars !  "  she  repeated.  "  Well,  I  want 
to  know ! " 

The  two  women  exchanged  swift  glances. 

"  You  wouldn't  want  to  buy  any  pieces  that  had 
been  broke,  I  s'pose,"  suggested  Mrs.  Dodge. 

"If  they  can  be  repaired,  I  certainly  do,"  replied 
L.ydia. 

"  Mother !  "  expostulated  Fanny,  in  a  low  but  urgent 
tone.  "  Ellen  and  I  —  we  really  ought  to  be  going." 

The  girl's  face  glowed  with  shamed  crimson.  She 
felt  haughty  and  humiliated  and  angry  all  at  once. 
It  was  not  to  be  borne. 

Mrs.  Dix  was  not  listening  to  Fanny  Dodge. 

"  I  bid  in  the  big,  four-post  mahogany  bed  at  the 
auction,"  she  said,  "  and  the  bureau  to  match ;  an* 
I  believe  there  are  two  or  three  chairs  about  the 
house." 

"  We've  got  a  table,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Dodge ;  "  but 
one  leg  give  away,  an'  I  had  it  put  up  in  the  attic  years 
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ago.  And  Fanny's  got  a  bed  and  bureau  in  her  room 
that  was  painted  white,  with  little  pink  flowers  tied 
up  with  blue  ribbons.  Of  course  the  paint  is  pretty 
well  rubbed  off;  but—" 

"  Oh,  might  I  have  that  set  ?  "  cried  Lydia,  turning 
to  Fanny.  "  Perhaps  you've  grown  fond  of  it  and 
won't  want  to  give  it  up.  But  I  —  I'd  pay  almost 
anything  for  it.  And  of  course  I  shall  want  the  ma 
hogany,  too." 

"  Well,  we  didn't  know,"  explained  Mrs.  Dix,  with 
dignity.  "  We  got  those  pieces  instead  of  the  money 
we'd  ought  to  have  had  from  the  estate.  There  was  a 
big  crowd  at  the  auction,  I  remember;  but  nobody 
really  wanted  to  pay  anything  for  the  old  furniture. 
A  good  deal  of  it  had  come  out  of  folks'  attics  in  the 
first  place." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  pay  three  hundred  dollars  for 
the  mahogany  bed  and  bureau,"  said  Lydia.  "  And 
for  the  little  white  set  — " 

"  I  don't  care  to  part  with  my  furniture,"  said  Fanny 
Dodge,  her  pretty  round  chin  uplifted. 

She  was  taller  than  Lydia,  and  appeared  to  be  look 
ing  over  her  head  with  an  intent  stare  at  the  freshly 
papered  wall  beyond. 

"  For  pity  sake ! "  exclaimed  her  mother  sharply. 
"  Why,  Fanny,  you  could  buy  a  brand  new  set,  an' 
goodness  knows  what-all  with  the  money.  What's  the 
matter  with  you?" 

"  I  know  just  how  Fanny  feels  about  having  her 
room  changed,"  put  in  Ellen  Dix,  with  a  spirited 
glance  at  the  common  enemy.  "There  are  things 

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that  money  can't  buy,  but  some  people  don't  seem  to 
think  so." 

Lydia's  blue  eyes  had  clouded  swiftly. 

"If  you'll  come  into  the  library,"  she  said,  "  we'll 
have  some  lemonade.  It's  so  very  warm  I'm  sure  we 
are  all  thirsty." 

She  did  not  speak  of  the  furniture  again,  and  after 
a  little  the  visitors  rose  to  go.  Mrs.  Dodge  lingered 
behind  the  others  to  whisper: 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  got  into  my  Fanny. 
Only  the  other  day  she  was  wishing  she  might  have 
her  room  done  over,  with  new  furniture  and  all.  I'll 
try  and  coax  her." 

But  Lydia  shook  her  head. 

"  Please  don't,"  she  said.  "  I  want  that  furniture 
very  much;  but  —  I  know  there  are  things  money 
can't  buy." 

"  Mebbe  you  wouldn't  want  it,  if  you  was  t'  see  it," 
was  Mrs.  Dodge's  honest  opinion.  "  It's  all  turned 
yellow,  an'  the  pink  flowers  are  mostly  rubbed  off.  I 
remember  it  was  real  pretty  when  we  first  got  it.  It 
used  to  belong  to  Mrs.  Bolton's  little  girl.  I  don't 
know  as  anybody's  told  you,  but  they  had  a  little  girl. 
My!  what  an  awful  thing  for  a  child  to  grow  up  to! 
I've  often  thought  of  it.  But  mebbe  she  didn't  live 
to  grow  up.  None  of  us  ever  heard." 

"  Mother ! "  called  Fanny,  from  the  front  seat  of 
the  carryall.  "  We're  waiting  for  you." 

"  In  a  minute,  Fanny,"  said  Mrs.  Dodge.  ..."  Of 
course  you  can  have  that  table  I  spoke  of,  Miss  Orr, 
and  anything  else  I  can  find  in  the  attic,  or  around. 

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An'  I  was  thinking  if  you  was  to  come  down  to  the 
Ladies'  Aid  on  Friday  afternoon  —  it  meets  at  Mrs. 
Mixter's  this  week,  at  two  o'clock;  you  know  where 
Mrs.  Mixter  lives,  don't  you?  Well;  anyway,  Mrs. 
Solomon  Black  does,  an'  she  generally  comes.  But  I 
know  lots  of  the  ladies  has  pieces  of  that  furniture ;  and 
most  of  them  would  be  mighty  glad  to  get  rid  of  it. 
But  they  are  like  my  Fanny  —  kind  of  contrary,  and 
backward  about  selling  things.  I'll  talk  to  Fanny  when 
we  get  home.  Why,  she  don't  any  more  want  that  old 
painted  set  — " 

"  Mother !  "  Fanny's  sweet  angry  voice  halted  the 
rapid  progress  of  her  mother's  speech  for  an  instant. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  the  flies  was  bothering  th' 
horse,"  surmised  Mrs.  Dodge;  "he  does  fidget  an' 
stamp  somethin'  terrible  when  the  flies  gets  after  him; 
his  tail  ain't  so  long  as  some.  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  let  you 
know ;  and  if  you  could  drop  around  and  see  the  table 
and  all —  Yes,  some  day  this  week.  Of  course  I'll 
have  to  buy  new  furniture  to  put  in  their  places;  so 
will  Mrs.  Dix.  But  I  will  say  that  mahogany  bed  is 
handsome;  they've  got  it  in  their  spare  room,  and 
there  ain't  a  scratch  on  it.  I  can  guarantee  that.  .  .  . 
Yes;  I  guess  the  flies  are  bad  today;  looks  like  rain. 
Good-by!" 

Lydia  stood  watching  the  carryall,  as  it  moved  away 
from  under  the  milk-white  pillars  of  the  restored  por 
tico.  Why  did  Fanny  Dodge  and  Ellen  Dix  dislike 
her,  she  wondered,  and  what  could  she  do  to  win  their 
friendship?  Her  troubled  thoughts  were  interrupted 
by  Martha,  the  taciturn  maid. 

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"  I  found  this  picture  on  the  floor,  Miss  Lydia,"  said 
Martha;  "did  you  drop  it?" 

Lydia  glanced  at  the  small,  unmounted  photograph. 
It  was  a  faded  snapshot  of  a  picnic  party  under  a  big 
tree.  Her  eyes  became  at  once  riveted  upon  the  cen 
tral  figures  of  the  little  group;  the  pretty  girl  in 
the  middle  was  Fanny  Dodge;  and  behind  her  — 
yes,  surely,  that  was  the  young  clergyman,  Wesley 
Elliot.  Something  in  the  attitude  of  the  man  and 
the  coquettish  upward  tilt  of  the  girl's  face  brought 
back  to  her  mind  a  forgotten  remark  of  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black's.  Lydia  had  failed  to  properly  understand  it, 
at  the  time.  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  was  given  to  cryp 
tic  remarks,  and  Lydia's  mind  had  been  preoccupied  by 
the  increasing  difficulties  which  threatened  the  acj 
complishment  of  her  purpose : 

"  A  person,  coming  into  a  town  like  Brookville  to 
live,  by  rights  had  ought  to  have  eyes  in  the  backs  of 
their  heads,"  Mrs.  Black  had  observed. 

It  was  at  breakfast  time,  Lydia  now  remembered, 
and  the  minister  was  late,  as  frequently  happened. 

"  I  thought  like's  not  nobody  would  mention  it  to 
you/'  Mrs.  Black  had  further  elucidated.  "  Of  course 
he  wouldn't  say  anything,  men-folks  are  kind  of  sly 
and  secret  in  their  doings  —  even  the  best  of  'em ; 
and  you'll  find  it's  so,  as  you  travel  along  life's  path 
way." 

Mrs.  Black  had  once  written  a  piece  of  poetry  and 
it  had  actually  been  printed  in  the  Grenoble  News; 
since  then  she  frequently  made  use  of  figures  of 
speech. 

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"  A  married  woman  and  a  widow  can  speak  from 
experience,"  she  went  on.  "  So  I  thought  I'd  just  tell 
you:  he's  as  good  as  engaged,  already." 

"  Do  you  mean  Mr.  Elliot  ?  "  asked  Lydia  incuri 
ously. 

Mrs.  Black  nodded. 

"  I  thought  you  ought  to  know,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Elliot  had  entered  the  room  upon  the  heels  of 
this  warning,  and  Lydia  had  promptly  forgotten  it. 
Now  she  paused  for  a  swift  review  of  the  weeks  which 
had  already  passed  since  her  arrival.  Mr.  Elliot  had 
been  unobtrusively  kind  and  helpful  from  the  first,  she 
remembered.  Later,  he  had  been  indefatigable  in  the 
matter  of  securing  workmen  for  the  restoration  of 
the  old  house,  when  she  made  it  clear  to  him  that  she 
did  not  want  an  architect  and  preferred  to  hire  Brook- 
ville  men  exclusively.  As  seemed  entirely  natural,  the 
minister  had  called  frequently  to  inspect  the  progress 
of  the  work.  Twice  in  their  rounds  together  they  had 
come  upon  Jim  Dodge;  and  although  the  clergyman 
was  affable  in  his  recognition  and  greeting,  Lydia  had 
been  unpleasantly  surprised  by  the  savage  look  on  her 
landscape-gardener's  face  as  he  returned  the  polite 
salutation. 

"  Don't  you  like  Mr.  Elliot  ?  "  she  had  ventured  to 
inquire,  after  the  second  disagreeable  incident  of  the 
sort. 

Jim  Dodge  had  treated  her  to  one  of  his  dark- 
browed,  incisive  glances  before  replying. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  answer  that  question  satisfac 
torily,  Miss  Orr,"  was  what  he  said. 

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And  Lydia,  wondering,  desisted  from  further  ques 
tion. 

"  That  middle  one  looks  some  like  one  of  the  young 
ladies  that  was  here  this  morning,'*  observed  Martha, 
with  the  privileged  familiarity  of  an  old  servant. 

"  She  must  have  dropped  it,"  said  Lydia,  slowly. 

"  The  young  ladies  here  in  the  country  has  very  bad 
manners,"  commented  Martha,  puckering  her  lips 
primly.  "  I  wouldn't  put  myself  out  for  them,  if  I  was 
you,  mem." 

Lydia  turned  the  picture  over  and  gazed  abstractedly 
at  the  three  words  written  there :  "  Lest  we  forget !  " 
Beneath  this  pertinent  quotation  appeared  the  initials 
"W.  E." 

"If  it  was  for  me  to  say,"  went  on  Martha,  in  an 
injured  tone,  "  I'd  not  be  for  feedin'  up  every  man, 
woman  and  child  that  shows  their  face  inside  the 
grounds.  Why,  they  don't  appreciate  it  no  more 
than—" 

The  woman's  eloquent  gesture  appeared  to  include 
the  blue-bottle  fly  buzzing  noisily  on  the  window-pane : 

"Goodness  gracious!  if  these  flies  ain't  enough  to 
drive  a  body  crazy  —  what  with  the  new  paint  and 
all.  ." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LYDIA  laid  the  picture   carefully  away   in  a 
pigeonhole  of  her  desk.     She  was  still  think 
ing  soberly  of  the  subtle  web  of  prejudices, 
feelings  and  conditions  into  which  she  had  obtruded  her 
one  fixed  purpose  in  life.     But  if  Mr.  Elliot  had  been 
as  good  as  engaged  to  Fanny  Dodge,  as  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black  had  been  at  some  pains  to  imply,  in  what  way 
had  she  (Lydia)  interfered  with  the  denouement? 

She  shook  her  head  at  last  over  the  intricacies  of  the 
imperfectly  stated  problem.  The  idea  of  coquetting 
with  a  man  had  never  entered  Lydia's  fancy.  Long 
since,  in  the  chill  spring  of  her  girlhood,  she  had  un 
derstood  her  position  in  life  as  compared  with  that  of 
other  girls.  She  must  never  marry.  She  must  never 
fall  in  love,  even.  The  inflexible  Puritan  code  of  her 
uncle's  wife  had  found  ready  acceptance  in  Lydia's 
nature.  If  not  an  active  participant  in  her  father's 
crime,  she  still  felt  herself  in  a  measure  responsible 
for  it.  He  had  determined  to  grow  rich  and  powerful 
for  her  sake.  More  than  once,  in  the  empty  rambling 
talk  which  he  poured  forth  in  a  turgid  stream  during 
their  infrequent  meetings,  he  had  told  her  so,  with 
extravagant  phrase  and  gesture.  And  so,  at  last,  she 
had  come  to  share  his  punishment  in  a  hundred  secret, 
unconfessed  ways.  She  ate  scant  food,  slept  on  the 

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hardest  of  beds,  labored  unceasingly,  with  the  great, 
impossible  purpose  of  some  day  making  things  right: 
of  restoring  the  money  they  —  she  no  longer  said  he 
—  had  stolen;  of  building  again  the  waste  places  deso 
lated  by  the  fire  of  his  ambition  for  her.  There  had 
followed  that  other  purpose,  growing  ever  stronger 
with  the  years,  and  deepening  with  the  deepening 
stream  of  her  womanhood:  her  love,  her  vast,  un 
availing  pity  for  the  broken  and  aging  man,  who 
would  some  day  be  free.  She  came  at  length  to  the 
time  when  she  saw  clearly  that  he  would  never  leave 
the  prison  alive,  unless  in  some  way  she  could  contrive 
to  keep  open  the  clogging  springs  of  hope  and  desire. 
She  began  deliberately  and  with  purpose  to  call  back 
memories  of  the  past :  the  house  in  which  he  had  lived, 
the  gardens  and  orchards  in  which  he  once  had  taken 
pride,  his  ambitious  projects  for  village  improve 
ment. 

"  You  shall  have  it  all  back,  father !  "  she  promised 
him,  with  passionate  resolve.  "  And  it  will  only  be  a 
little  while  to  wait,  now." 

Thus  encouraged,  the  prisoner's  horizon  widened, 
day  by  day.  He  appeared,  indeed,  to  almost  forget  the 
prison,  so  busy  was  he  in  recalling  trivial  details  and 
unimportant  memories  of  events  long  since  past.  He 
babbled  incessantly  of  his  old  neighbors,  calling  them 
by  name,  and  chuckling  feebly  as  he  told  her  of  their 
foibles  and  peculiarities. 

"  But  we  must  give  them  every  cent  of  the  money, 
father,"  she  insisted ;  "we  must  make  everything 
right." 

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"  Oh,  yes !  Oh,  yes,  we'll  fix  it  up  somehow  with 
the  creditors,"  he  would  say. 

Then  he  would  scowl  and  rub  his  shorn  head  with 
his  tremulous  old  hands. 

"  What  did  they  do  with  the  house,  Margaret?  "  he 
asked,  over  and  over,  a  furtive  gleam  of  anxiety  in 
his  eyes.  "  They  didn't  tear  it  down;  did  they?  " 

He  waxed  increasingly  anxious  on  this  point  as  the 
years  of  his  imprisonment  dwindled  at  last  to  months. 
And  then  her  dream  had  unexpectedly  come  true.  She 
had  money  —  plenty  of  it  —  and  nothing  stood  in  the 
way.  She  could  never  forget  the  day  she  told  him 
about  the  house.  Always  she  had  tried  to  quiet  him 
with  vague  promises  and  imagined  descriptions  of  a 
place  she  had  completely  forgotten. 

"  The  house  is  ours,  father,"  she  assured  him,  jubi 
lantly.  "  And  I  am  having  it  painted  on  the  out 
side." 

"  You  are  having  it  painted  on  the  outside,  Mar 
garet?  Was  that  necessary,  already?" 

"Yes,  father.  .  .  .  But  I  am  Lydia.  Don't  you 
remember?  I  am  your  little  girl,  grown  up." 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course.  You  are  like  your  mother  — 
And  you  are  having  the  house  painted  ?  Who's  doing 
the  job?" 

She  told  him  the  man's  name  and  he  laughed  rather 
immoderately. 

"  He'll  do  you  on  the  white  lead,  if  you  don't  watch 
him,"  he  said.  "I  know  Asa  Todd.  Talk  about 
frauds  —  You  must  be  sure  he  puts  honest  linseed 
oil  in  the  paint.  He  won't,  unless  you  watch  him." 


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"  I'll  see  to  it,  father." 

"  But  whatever  you  do,  don't  let  'em  into  my  room," 
he  went  on,  after  a  frowning  pause. 

"  You  mean  your  library,  father  ?  I'm  having  the 
ceiling  whitened.  It  —  it  needed  it." 

"  I  mean  my  bedroom,  child.  I  won't  have  workmen 
pottering  about  in  there." 

"  But  you  won't  mind  if  they  paint  the  wood 
work,  father?  It  —  has  grown  quite  yellow  in 
places." 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear !  Why,  I  had  all  the  paint  up 
stairs  gone  over  —  let  me  see  — " 

And  he  fell  into  one  of  his  heavy  moods  of  intro 
spection  which  seemed,  indeed,  not  far  removed  from 
torpor. 

When  she  had  at  last  roused  him  with  an  animated 
description  of  the  vegetable  garden,  he  appeared  to  have 
forgotten  his  objections  to  having  workmen  enter  his 
chamber.  And  Lydia  was  careful  not  to  recall  it  to 
his  mind. 

She  was  still  sitting  before  his  desk,  ostensibly  ab 
sorbed  in  the  rows  of  incomprehensible  figures  Deacon 
Whittle,  as  general  contractor,  had  urged  upon  her 
attention,  when  Martha  again  parted  the  heavy  cloud 
of  her  thoughts. 

"  The  minister,  come  to  see  you  again,"  she  an 
nounced,  with  a  slight  but  mordant  emphasis  on  the  ul 
timate  word. 

"  Yes,"  said  Lydia,  rousing  herself,  with  an  ef 
fort  "  Mr.  Elliot,  you  said  ?  " 

"  I  s'pose  that's  his  name,"  conceded  Martha  un- 

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graciously.  "  I  set  him  in  the  dining  room.  It's 
about  the  only  place  with  two  chairs  in  it ;  an'  I  shan't 
have  no  time  to  make  more  lemonade,  in  case  you 
wanted  it,  m'm." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  REVEREND  WESLEY  ELLIOT,  look 
ing  young,  eager  and  pleasingly  worldly  in  a 
blue  serge  suit  of  unclerical  cut,  rose  to  greet 
her  as  she  entered. 

"  I  haven't  been  here  in  two  or  three  days,"  he  be 
gan,  as  he  took  the  hand  she  offered,  "  and  I'm  really 
astonished  at  the  progress  you've  been  making." 

He  still  retained  her  hand,  as  he  smiled  down  into 
her  grave,  preoccupied  face. 

"  What's  the  trouble  with  our  little  lady  of  Bolton 
House?"  he  inquired.  "Any  of  the  workmen  on 
strike,  or — " 

She  withdrew  her  hand  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Everything  is  going  very  well,  I  think,"  she  told 
him. 

He  was  still  scrutinizing  her  with  that  air  of  in 
timate  concern,  which  inspired  most  of  the  women  of 
his  flock  to  unburden  themselves  of  their  mani 
fold  anxieties  at  his  slightest  word  of  encourage 
ment. 

"  It's  a  pretty  heavy  burden  for  you,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  You  need  some  one  to  help  you.  I  won 
der  if  I  couldn't  shoulder  a  few  of  the  grosser  de 
tails?" 

"  You've  already  been  most  kind,"  Lydia  said  eva- 
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sively.  "  But  now  —  Oh,  I  think  everything  has 
been  thought  of.  You  know  Mr.  Whittle  is  looking 
after  the  work." 

He  smiled,  a  glimmer  of  humorous  understanding  in 
his  fine  dark  eyes.  "  Yes,  I  know,"  he  said. 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  Lydia  was  one  of 
those  rare  women  who  do  not  object  to  silence.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  had  always  lived  alone  with 
her  ambitions,  which  could  not  be  shared,  and  her 
bitter  knowledge,  which  was  never  to  be  spoken  of. 
But  now  she  stirred  uneasily  in  her  chair,  aware  of 
the  intent  expression  in  his  eyes.  Her  troubled 
thoughts  reverted  to  the  little  picture  which  had  flut 
tered  to  the  floor  from  somebody's  keeping  only  an 
hour  before. 

"  I've  had  visitors  this  morning/'  she  told  him,  with 
purpose. 

"  Ah !  people  are  sure  to  be  curious  and  interested," 
he  commented. 

"  They  were  Mrs.  Dodge  and  her  daughter  and  Mrs. 
Dix  and  Ellen,"  she  explained. 

"  That  must  have  been  pleasant,"  he  murmured  per 
functorily.  "  Are  you  —  do  you  find  yourself  becom 
ing  at  all  interested  in  the  people  about  here?  Of 
course  it  is  easy  to  see  you  come  to  us  from  quite  an 
other  world." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  quickly.  "  —  if  you  mean  that 
I  am  superior  in  any  way  to  the  people  of  Brookville ; 
I'm  not,  at  all.  I  am  really  a  very  ordinary  sort  of 
a  person.  I've  not  been  to  college  and  —  I've  always 

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worked,  harder  than  most,  so  that  I've  had  little  op 
portunity  for  —  culture." 

His  smile  broadened  into  a  laugh  of  genuine  amuse 
ment. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Orr,"  he  protested,  "  I  had  no  idea 
of  intimating — " 

Her  look  of  passionate  sincerity  halted  his  words  of 
apology. 

"  I  am  very  much  interested  in  the  people  here," 
she  declared.  "  I  want  —  oh,  so  much  —  to  be  friends 
with  them!  I  want  it  more  than  anything  else  in 
the  world!  If  they  would  only  like  me.  But  —  they 
don't." 

"How  can  they  help  it?"  he  exclaimed.  "Like 
you  ?  They  ought  to  worship  you !  They  shall !  " 

She  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"  No  one  can  compel  love,"  she  said. 

"  Sometimes  the  love  of  one  can  atone  for  the  in 
difference  —  even  the  hostility  of  the  many/'  he  ven 
tured. 

But  she  had  not  stooped  to  the  particular,  he  per 
ceived.  Her  thoughts  were  ranging  wide  over  an  un 
known  country  whither,  for  the  moment,  he  could  not 
follow.  He  studied  her  abstracted  face  with  its 
strangely  aloof  expression,  like  that  of  a  saint  or  a 
fanatic,  with  a  faint  renewal  of  previous  misgivings. 

"  I  am  very  much  interested  in  Fanny  Dodge,"  she 
said  abruptly. 

"  In  —  Fanny  Dodge  ?  "  he  repeated. 

He  became  instantly  angry  with  himself  for  the  dis 
mayed  astonishment  he  had  permitted  to  escape  him, 


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and  increasingly  so  because  of  the  uncontrollable  tide 
of  crimson  which  invaded  his  face. 

She  was  looking  at  him,  with  the  calm,  direct  gaze 
which  had  more  than  once  puzzled  him. 

"  You  know  her  very  well,  don't  you?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,  Miss  Dodge  is  —  she  is  —  er  — 
one  of  our  leading  young  people,  and  naturally  — 
She  plays  our  little  organ  in  church  and  Sunday  School. 
Of  course  you've  noticed.  She  is  most  useful  and  — 
er__  helpful." 

Lydia  appeared  to  be  considering  his  words  with 
undue  gravity. 

"  But  I  didn't  come  here  this  morning  to  talk  to  you 
about  another  woman,"  he  said,  with  undeniable  hard 
ihood.  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you  —  to  you  —  and  what 
I  have  to  say — " 

Lydia  got  up  from  her  chair  rather  suddenly. 

"  Please  excuse  me  a  moment,"  she  said,  quite  as  ii 
he  had  not  spoken. 

He  heard  her  cross  the  hall  swiftly.  In  a  moment 
she  had  returned. 

"  I  found  this  picture  on  the  floor  —  after  they 
had  gone,"  she  said,  and  handed  him  the  photograph. 

He  stared  at  it  with  unfeigned  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  murmured.     "  Well  —  ?  " 

"  Turn  it  over,"  she  urged,  somewhat  breathlessly. 

He  obeyed,  and  bit  his  lip  angrily. 

"  What  of  it?  "  he  demanded.  "  A  quotation  from 
Kipling's  Recessional  —  a  mere  commonplace.  .  .  . 
Yes;  I  wrote  it." 

Then  his  anger  suddenly  left  him.  His  mind  had 

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leaped  to  the  solution  of  the  matter,  and  the  solution 
appeared  to  Wesley  Elliot  as  eminently  satisfying;  it 
was  even  amusing.  What  a  transparent,  womanly 
little  creature  she  was,  to  be  sure!  He  had  not  been 
altogether  certain  of  himself  as  he  walked  out  to  the 
old  Bolton  place  that  morning.  But  oddly  enough, 
this  girlish  jealousy  of  hers,  this  pretty  spite  —  he 
found  it  piquantly  charming. 

"  I  wrote  it,"  he  repeated,  his  indulgent  understand 
ing  of  her  mood  lurking  in  smiling  lips  and  eyes,  "  on 
the  occasion  of  a  particularly  grubby  Sunday  School 
picnic :  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  spiders 
which  came  to  an  untimely  end  in  my  lemonade,  nor 
the  inquisitive  ants  which  explored  my  sandwiches." 

She  surveyed  him  unsmilingly. 

"  But  you  did  not  mean  that/'  she  said.  "  You  were 
thinking  of  something  —  quite  different." 

He  frowned  thoughtfully.  Decidedly,  this  matter 
should  be  settled  between  them  at  once  and  for  ever. 
A  clergyman,  he  reflected,  must  always  be  on  friendly 
—  even  confidential  terms  with  a  wide  variety 
of  women.  His  brief  experience  had  already  taught 
him  this  much.  And  a  jealous  or  unduly  suspicious 
wife  might  prove  a  serious  handicap  to  future  suc 
cess. 

"Won't  you  sit  down,"  he  urged.  "I —  You 
must  allow  me  to  explain.  We  —  er  —  must  talk  this 
over." 

She  obeyed  him  mechanically.     All  at  once  she  was 
excessively    frightened   at   what   she   had   attempted. 
She  knew  nothing  of  the  ways  of  men;  but  she  felt 
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suddenly  sure  that  he  would  resent  her  interference  as 
an  unwarrantable  impertinence. 

"  I  thought  —  if  you  were  going  there  today  — 
you  might  take  it  —  to  her,"  she  hesitated.  "Or,  I 
could  send  it.  It  is  a  small  matter,  of  course." 

"  I  think,"  he  said  gravely,  "  that  it  is  a  very  serious 
matter." 

She  interpreted  uncertainly  the  intent  gaze  of  his 
beautiful,  somber  eyes. 

"  I  came  here,"  she  faltered,  "  to  —  to  find  a  home. 
I  had  no  wish — " 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  his  voice  deep  and  sympa 
thetic  ;  "  people  have  been  talking  to  you  —  about  me. 
Am  I  right?" 

She  was  silent,  a  pink  flush  slowly  staining  her 
cheeks. 

"  You  have  not  yet  learned  upon  what  slight  prem 
ises  country  women,  of  the  type  we  find  in  Brook- 
ville,  arrive  at  the  most  unwarrantable  conclusions," 
he  went  on  carefully.  "  I  did  not  myself  sufficiently 
realize  this,  at  first.  I  may  have  been  unwise." 

"  No,  you  were  not ! "  she  contradicted  him  unex 
pectedly. 

His  lifted  eyebrows  expressed  surprise. 

"  I  wish  you  would  explain  to  me  — "  he  began. 

Then  stopped  short.  How  indeed  could  she  ex 
plain,  when  as  yet  he  had  not  made  clear  to  her  his 
own  purpose,  which  had  grown  steadily  with  the  pass 
ing  weeks  ? 

"  You  will  let  me  speak,  first,"  he  concluded  inade 
quately. 

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He  hastily  reviewed  the  various  phrases  which  arose 
to  his  lips  and  rejected  them  one  by  one.  There  was 
some  peculiar  quality  of  coldness,  of  reserve  —  he 
could  not  altogether  make  it  clear  to  himself :  it  might 
well  be  the  knowledge  of  her  power,  her  wealth,  which 
lent  that  almost  austere  expression  to  her  face.  It 
was  evident  that  her  wonted  composure  had  been  seri 
ously  disturbed  by  the  unlucky  circumstance  of  the 
photograph.  He  had  permitted  the  time  and  occasion 
which  had  prompted  him  to  write  those  three  fate- 
fully  familiar  words  on  the  back  of  the  picture  al 
together  to  escape  him.  If  he  chose  to  forget,  why 
should  Fanny  Dodge,  or  any  one  else,  persist  in  remem 
bering  ? 

And  above  all,  why  should  the  girl  have  chosen 
to  drop  this  absurd  memento  of  the  most  harm 
less  of  flirtations  at  the  feet  of  Lydia?  There  could 
be  but  one  reasonable  explanation.  .  .  .  Confound 
women,  anyway! 

"  I  had  not  meant  to  speak,  yet,"  he  went  on,  out  of 
the  clamoring  multitude  of  his  thoughts.  "  I  felt  that 
we  ought  — " 

He  became  suddenly  aware  of  Lydia's  eyes.  There 
was  no  soft  answering  fire,  no  maidenly  uncertainty 
of  hope  and  fear  in  those  clear  depths. 

"  It  is  very  difficult  for  me  to  talk  of  this  to  you," 
she  said  slowly.  "  You  will  think  me  over-bold  —  un 
mannerly,  perhaps.  But  I  can't  help  that.  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  your  caring  for  me  —  you  will 
at  least  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that." 

"  Lydia !  "  he  interrupted,  poignantly  distressed  by 


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her  evident  timidity  —  her  exquisite  hesitation,  "  let 
me  speak !  I  understand  —  I  know  — " 

She  forbade  him  with  a  gesture,  at  once  pleading 
and  peremptory. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  No !  I  began  this,  I  must  go  on 
to  the  end.  What  you  ought  to  understand  is  this: 
I  am  not  like  other  women.  I  want  only  friendship 
from  every  one.  I  shall  never  ask  more.  I  can  never 
accept  more  —  from  any  one.  I  want  you  to  know 
this  —  now." 

"  But  I  —  do  you  realize  — " 

"  I  want  your  friendship,"  she  went  on,  facing  him 
with  a  sort  of  desperate  courage;  "  but  more  than  any 
kindness  you  can  offer  me,  Mr.  Elliot,  I  want  the 
friendship  of  Fanny  Dodge,  of  Ellen  Dix  —  of  all 
good  women.  I  need  it!  Now  you  know  why  I 
showed  you  the  picture.  If  you  will  not  give  it  to  her, 
I  shall.  I  want  her  —  I  want  every  one  —  to  under 
stand  that  I  shall  never  come  between  her  and  the 
slightest  hope  she  may  have  cherished  before  my  com 
ing  to  Brookville.  All  I  ask  is  —  leave  to  live  here 
quietly  —  and  be  friendly,  as  opportunity  offers." 

Her  words,  her  tone  were  not  to  be  mistaken.  But 
even  the  sanest  and  wisest  of  men  has  never  thus 
easily  surrendered  the  jealously  guarded  stronghold  of 
sex.  Wesley  Elliot's  youthful  ideas  of  women  were 
totally  at  variance  with  the  disconcerting  conviction 
which  strove  to  invade  his  mind.  He  had  experienced 
not  the  slightest  difficulty,  up  to  the  present  moment,  in 
classifying  them,  neatly  and  logically;  but  there  was  no 
space  in  his  mental  files  for  a  woman  such  as  Lydia 

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Orr  was  representing  herself  to  be.  It  was  incon 
ceivable,  on  the  face  of  it!  All  women  demanded  ad 
miration,  courtship,  love.  They  always  had;  they  al 
ways  would.  The  literature  of  the  ages  attested  it. 
He  had  been  too  precipitate  —  too  hasty.  He  must 
give  her  time  to  recover  from  the  shock  she  must  have 
experienced  from  hearing  the  spiteful  gossip  about 
himself  and  Fanny  Dodge.  On  the  whole,  he  ad 
mired  her  courage.  What  she  had  said  could  not  be 
attributed  to  the  mere  promptings  of  vulgar  sex- jeal 
ousy.  Very  likely  Fanny  had  been  disagreeable  and 
haughty  in  her  manner.  He  believed  her  capable  of  it. 
He  sympathized  with  Fanny;  with  the  curious  mental 
aptitude  of  a  sensitive  nature,  he  still  loved  Fanny.  It 
had  cost  him  real  effort  to  close  the  doors  of  his  heart 
against  her. 

"  I  admire  you  more  than  I  can  express  for  what 
you  have  had  the  courage  to  tell  me,"  he  assured  her. 
"  And  you  will  let  me  see  that  I  understand  —  more 
than  you  think." 

"  It  is  impossible  that  you  should  understand,"  she 
said  tranquilly.  "  But  you  will,  at  least,  remember 
what  I  have  said  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  he  promised  easily.  "  I  shall  never  forget 
it!" 

A  slight  humorous  smile  curved  the  corners  of  his 
handsome  mouth. 

"  Now  this  —  er  —  what  shall  we  call  it?  —  *  bone  of 
contention '  savors  too  strongly  of  wrath  and  discom 
fiture  ;  so  we'll  say,  simply  and  specifically,  this  photo 
graph —  which  chances  to  have  a  harmless  quotation 

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inscribed  upon  its  reverse:  Suppose  I  drop  it  in  the 
waste-basket  ?  I  can  conceive  that  it  possesses  no  par 
ticular  significance  or  value  for  any  one.  I  assure  you 
most  earnestly  that  it  does  not  —  for  me." 

He  made  as  though  he  would  have  carelessly  torn  the 
picture  across,  preparatory  to  making  good  his  pro 
posal. 

She  stopped  him  with  a  swift  gesture. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  said.  "  It  is  lost  property,  and 
I  am  responsible  for  its  safe-keeping." 

She  perceived  that  she  had  completely  failed  in  her 
intention. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  "  he  inquired, 
with  an  easy  assumption  of  friendliness  calculated  to 
put  her  more  completely  at  her  ease  with  him. 

"  I  don't  know.  For  the  present,  I  shall  put  it 
back  in  my  desk." 

"  Better  take  my  advice  and  destroy  it,"  he  persisted. 
"  It  —  er  —  is  not  valuable  evidence.  Or  —  I  believe 
on  second  thought  I  shall  accept  your  suggestion  and 
return  it  myself  to  its  probable  owner." 

He  was  actually  laughing,  his  eyes  brimming  with 
boyish  mischief. 

"  I  think  it  belongs  to  Miss  Dix,"  he  told  her  auda 
ciously. 

"To  Miss  Dix?"  she  echoed. 

"Yes;  why  not?  Don't  you  see  the  fair  Ellen 
among  the  group  ?  " 

Her  eyes  blazed  suddenly  upon  him;  her  lips  trem 
bled. 

"  Forgive  me !  "  he  cried,  aghast  at  his  own  folly. 

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She  retreated  before  his  outstretched  hands. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  —  to  make  light  of  what  appears 
so  serious  a  matter  to  you,"  he  went  on  impetuously. 
"  It  is  only  that  it  is  not  serious;  don't  you  see?  It  is 
such  a  foolish  little  mistake.  It  must  not  come  be 
tween  us,  Lydia !  " 

"  Please  go  away,  at  once/'  she  interrupted  him 
breathlessly,  "  and  —  and  think  of  what  I  have  said  to 
you.  Perhaps  you  didn't  believe  it ;  but  you  must  be 
lieve  it!" 

Then,  because  he  did  not  stir,  but  instead  stood 
gazing  at  her,  his  puzzled  eyes  full  of  questions,  en 
treaties,  denials,  she  quietly  closed  a  door  between 
them.  A  moment  later  he  heard  her  hurrying  feet 
upon  the  stair. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AUGUST  was  a  month  of  drought  and  intense 
heat  that  year;  by  the  first  week  in  Septem 
ber  the  stream  had  dwindled  to  the  merest 
silver  thread,  its  wasted  waters  floating  upward  in 
clouds  of  impalpable  mist  at  dawn  and  evening  to  be 
lost  forever  in  the  empty  vault  of  heaven.  Behind  the 
closed  shutters  of  the  village  houses,  women  fanned 
themselves  in  the  intervals  of  labor  over  superheated 
cookstoves.  Men  consulted  their  thermometers  with 
incredulous  eyes.  Springs  reputed  to  be  unfailing 
gradually  ceased  their  cool  trickle.  Wells  and  cisterns 
yielded  little  save  the  hollow  sound  of  the  questing 
bucket.  There  was  serious  talk  of  a  water  famine  in 
Brookville.  At  the  old  Bolton  house,  however,  there 
was  still  water  in  abundance.  In  jubilant  defiance  of 
blazing  heavens  and  parching  earth  the  Red-Fox 
Spring  —  tapped  years  before  by  Andrew  Bolton  and 
piped  a  mile  or  more  down  the  mountain  side,  that  his 
household,  garden  and  stock  might  never  lack  of  pure 
cold  water  —  gushed  in  undiminished  volume,  filling 
and  overflowing  the  new  cement  reservoir,  which  had 
been  one  of  Lydia  Orr's  cautious  innovations  in  the 
old  order  of  things. 

The  repairs  on  the  house  were  by  now  finished,  and 
the  new-old  mansion,  shining  white  amid  the  chastened 

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luxuriance  of  ancient  trees,  once  more  showed  glimpses 
of  snowy  curtains  behind  polished  windowpanes. 
Flowers,  in  a  lavish  prodigality  of  bloom  the  Bolton 
house  of  the  past  had  never  known,  flanked  the  old 
stone  walls,  bordered  the  drives,  climbed  high  on  trel 
lises  and  arbors,  and  blazed  in  serried  ranks  beyond 
the  broad  sweep  of  velvet  turf,  which  repaid  in  emer 
ald  freshness  its  daily  share  of  the  friendly  water. 

Mrs.  Abby  Daggett  gazed  at  the  scene  in  rapt  admira 
tion  through  the  clouds  of  dust  which  uprose  from  un 
der  Dolly's  scuffling  feet. 

"  Ain't  that  place  han'some,  now  she's  fixed  it  up  ?  " 
she  demanded  of  Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle,  who  sat  bolt 
upright  at  her  side,  her  best  summer  hat,  sparsely  dec 
orated  with  purple  flowers,  protected  from  the  suffo 
cating  clouds  of  dust  by  a  voluminous  brown  veil. 
"  I  declare  I'd  like  to  stop  in  and  see  the  house,  now 
it's  all  furnished  up  —  if  only  for  a  minute." 

"  We  ain't  got  time,  Abby,"  Mrs.  Whittle  pointed 
out.  "  There's  work  to  cut  out  after  we  get  to  Mis' 
Dix's,  and  it  was  kind  of  late  when  we  started." 

Mrs.  Daggett  relinquished  her  random  desire  with 
her  accustomed  amiability.  Life  consisted  mainly  in 
giving  up  things,  she  had  found;  but  being  cheerful, 
withal,  served  to  cast  a  mellow  glow  over  the  severest 
denials;  in  fact,  it  often  turned  them  into  something 
unexpectedly  rare  and  beautiful. 

"  I  guess  that's  so,  Ann,"  she  agreed.  "  Dolly  got 
kind  of  fractious  over  his  headstall  when  I  was  har- 
nessin'.  He  don't  seem  to  like  his  sun  hat,  and  I 
dunno's  I  blame  him.  I  guess  if  our  ears  stuck  up 


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through  the  top  of  our  bunnits  like  his  we  wouldn't 
like  it  neither." 

Mrs.  Whittle  surveyed  the  animal's  grotesquely  bon 
neted  head  with  cold  disfavor. 

"  What  simple  ideas  you  do  get  into  your  mind, 
Abby,"  said  she,  with  the  air  of  one  conscious  of 
superior  intellect.  "  A  horse  ain't  human,  Abby.  He 
ain't  no  idea  he's  wearing  a  hat.  .  .  .  The  Deacon  says 
their  heads  get  hotter  with  them  rediculous  bunnits  on. 
He  favors  a  green  branch." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett,  foiling  a  suspicious 
movement  of  Dolly's  switching  tail,  "  mebbe  that's  so ; 
I  feel  some  cooler  without  a  hat.  But  'tain't  safe  to 
let  the  sun  beat  right  down,  the  way  it  does,  without 
something  between.  Then,  you  see,  Henry's  got  a  lot 
o'  these  horse  hats  in  the  store  to  sell.  So  of  course 
Dolly,  he  has  to  wear  one." 

Mrs.  Whittle  cautiously  wiped  the  dust  from  her 
hard  red  cheeks. 

"My!  if  it  ain't  hot,"  she  observed.  "You're  so 
fleshy,  Abby,  I  should  think  you'd  feel  it  something 
terrible." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett  placidly, 
"Of  course  I'm  fleshy,  Ann;  I  ain't  denying  that;  but 
so  be  you.  You  don't  want  to  think  about  the  heat  so 
constant,  Ann.  Our  thermometer  fell  down  and  got 
broke  day  before  yesterday,  and  Henry  says  '  I'll  bring 
you  up  another  from  the  store  this  noon.'  But  he  for 
got  all  about  it.  I  didn't  say  a  word,  and  that  after 
noon  I  set  out  on  the  porch  under  the  vines  and  felt  real 
cool  —  not  knowing  it  was  so  hot  —  when  along  comes 

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Mrs.  Fulsom,  a-pantin'  and  fannin'  herself.  *  Good 
land,  Abby ! '  says  she ;  '  by  the  looks,  a  body'd  think 
you  didn't  know  the  thermometer  had  risen  to  ninety- 
two  since  eleven  o'clock  this  morning/  '  I  didn't,'  I 
says  placid ;  '  our  thermometer's  broke.'  '  Well,  you'd 
better  get  another  right  off,'  says  she,  wiping  her  face 
and  groaning.  '  It's  an  awful  thing,  weather  like  this, 
not  to  have  a  thermometer  right  where  you  can  see 
it.'  Henry  brought  a  real  nice  one  home  from  the 
store  that  very  night;  and  I  hung  it  out  of  sight  behind 
the  sitting  room  door ;  I  told  Henry  I  thought  'twould 
be  safer  there." 

"  That  sounds  exactly  like  you,  Abby,"  commented 
Mrs.  Whittle  censoriously.  "  I  should  think  Henry 
Daggett  would  be  onto  you,  by  now." 

"  Well,  he  ain't,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett,  with  mild  tri 
umph.  "  He  thinks  I'm  real  cute,  an'  like  that.  It 
does  beat  all,  don't  it?  how  simple  menfolks  are.  I 
like  'em  all  the  better  for  it,  myself.  If  Henry'd  been 
as  smart  an'  penetrating  as  some  folks,  I  don't  know  as 
we'd  have  made  out  so  well  together.  Ain't  it  lucky 
for  me  he  ain't?  " 

Ann  Whittle  sniffed  suspiciously.  She  never  felt 
quite  sure  of  Abby  Daggett :  there  was  a  lurking  spar 
kle  in  her  demure  blue  eyes  and  a  suspicious  dimple 
near  the  corner  of  her  mouth  which  ruffled  Mrs.  Whit 
tle's  temper,  already  strained  to  the  breaking  point  by 
the  heat  and  dust  of  their  midday  journey. 

"  Well,  I  never  should  have  thought  of  such  a  thing, 
as  going  to  Ladies'  Aid  in  all  this  heat,  if  you  hadn't 
come  after  me,  Abby,"  she  said  crossly.  "  I  guess 

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flannel  petticoats  for  the  heathen  could  have  waited  a 
spell." 

"  Mebbe  they  could,  Ann/*  Mrs.  Daggett  said  sooth 
ingly.  "  It's  kind  of  hard  to  imagine  a  heathen  want 
ing  any  sort  of  a  petticoat  this  weather,  and  I  guess 
they  don't  wear  'em  before  they're  converted;  but  of 
course  the  missionaries  try  to  teach  'em  better.  They 
go  forth,  so  to  say,  with  the  Bible  in  one  hand  and  a 
petticoat  in  the  other." 

"  I  should  hope  so !  "  said  Mrs.  Whittle,  with  vague 
fervor. 

The  sight  of  a  toiling  wagon  supporting  a  huge  barrel 
caused  her  to  change  the  subject  rather  abruptly. 

"  That's  Jacob  Merrill's  team,"  she  said,  craning 
her  neck.  "  What  on  earth  has  he  got  in  that  hogs 
head?" 

"  He's  headed  for  Lydia  Orr's  spring,  I  shouldn't 
wonder,"  surmised  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  She  told  Henry 
to  put  up  a  notice  in  the  post  office  that  folks  could  get 
all  the  water  they  wanted  from  her  spring.  It's  run 
ning,  same  as  usual;  but,  most  everybody  else's  has 
dried  up." 

"  I  think  the  minister  ought  to  pray  for  rain  regular 
from  the  pulpit  on  Sunday,"  Mrs.  Whittle  advanced. 
"  I'm  going  to  tell  him  so." 

"  She's  going  to  do  a  lot  better  than  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Daggett.  ..."  For  the  land  sake,  Dolly !  I  ain't 
urged  you  beyond  your  strength,  and  you  know  it ;  but 
if  you  don't  g'long — " 

A  vigorous  slap  of  the  reins  conveyed  Mrs.  Dag- 
gett's  unuttered  threat  to  the  reluctant  animal,  with  the 

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result  that  both  ladies  were  suddenly  jerked  backward 
by  an  unlocked  for  burst  of  speed. 

"  I  think  that  horse  is  dangerous,  Abby,"  remon 
strated  Mrs.  Whittle,  indignantly,  as  she  settled  her 
veil.  "  You  ought  to  be  more  careful  how  you  speak 
up  to  him." 

"  I'll  risk  him !  "  said  Mrs.  Daggett  with  spirit.  "  It 
don't  help  him  none  to  stop  walking  altogether  and 
stand  stock  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  like  he  was 
a  graven  image.  I'll  take  the  whip  to  him,  if  he  don't 
look  out ! " 

Mrs.  Whittle  gathered  her  skirts  about  her,  with  an 
apprehensive  glance  at  the  dusty  road. 

"  If  you  das'  to  touch  that  whip,  Abby  Daggett/' 
said  she,  "  I'll  git  right  out  o'  this  buggy  and  walk,  so 
there!" 

Mrs.  Daggett's  broad  bosom  shook  with  merriment. 

"  Per  pity  sake,  Ann,  don't  be  scared,"  she  exhorted 
her  friend.  "  I  ain't  never  touched  Dolly  with  the 
whip ;  but  he  knows  I  mean  what  I  say  when  I  speak  to 
him  like  that!  ...  I  started  in  to  tell  you  about  the 
Red-Fox  Spring,  didn't  I?  " 

Mrs.  Whittle  coughed  dryly. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  drink  of  it  right  now,"  she  said. 
"  The  idea  of  that  Orr  girl  watering  her  flowers  and 
grass,  when  everybody  else  in  town  is  pretty  near  burnt 
up.  Why,  we  ain't  had  water  enough  in  our  cistern 
to  do  the  regular  wash  fer  two  weeks.  I  said  to  Joe 
and  the  Deacon  today :  '  You  can  wear  them  shirts 
another  day,  for  I  don't  know  wheire  on  earth  you'll 
get  clean  ones.' " 

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"  There  ain't  nothing  selfish  about  Lydia  Orr,"  pro 
claimed  Mrs.  Daggett  joyfully.  "  What  do  you  think 
she's  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"How  should  I  know?" 

Mrs.  Whittle's  tone  implied  a  jaded  indifference  to 
the  doings  of  any  one  outside  of  her  own  immediate 
family  circle. 

"  She's  going  to  have  the  Red-Fox  piped  down  to  the 
village,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  She's  had  a  man  from 
Boston  to  look  at  it ;  and  he  says  there's  water  enough 
up  there  in  the  mountains  to  supply  two  or  three  towns 
the  size  of  Brookville.  She's  going  to  have  a  reser 
voir:  and  anybody  that's  a  mind  to  can  pipe  it  right 
into  their  kitchens." 

Mrs.  Whittle  turned  her  veiled  head  to  stare  incred 
ulously  at  her  companion. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  she  said;  "that  girl  cer 
tainly  does  like  to  make  a  show  of  her  money;  don't 
she?  If  'tain't  one  thing  it's  another.  How  did 
a  girl  like  her  come  by  all  that  money,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"  I  don't  see  as  that's  any  of  our  particular  affairs," 
objected  Mrs.  Daggett  warmly.  "  Think  of  havin' 
nice  cool  spring  water,  just  by  turning  a  faucet.  We're 
going  to  have  it  in  our  house.  And  Henry  says  mebbe 
he'll  put  in  a  tap  and  a  drain-pipe  upstairs.  It'd  save 
a  lot  o'  steps." 

"  Huh !  like  enough  you'll  be  talkin'  about  a  regular 
nickel-plated  bathroom  like  hers,  next,"  suspicioned 
Mrs.  Whittle.  "  The  Deacon  says  he  did  his  best  to 
talk  her  out  of  it;  but  she  stuck  right  to  it.  And  one 

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wa'n't  enough,  at  that.     She's  got  three  of  'em  in  that 
house.     That's  worse'n  Andrew  Bolton." 

"  Do  you  mean  worse,  Ann  Whittle,  or  do  you  mean 
better  f  A  nice  white  bathtub  is  a  means  o'  grace,  I 
think!" 

"  I  mean  what  I  said,  Abby ;  and  you  hadn't  ought  to 
talk  like  that.  It's  downright  sinful.  Means  o'  grace! 
a  bathtub!  Well,  I  never!  " 

The  ladies  of  the  Aid  Society  were  already  con 
vened  in  Mrs.  Dix's  front  parlor,  a  large  square  room, 
filled  with  the  cool  green  light  from  a  yard  full  of 
trees,  whose  deep-thrust  roots  defied  the  drought. 
Ellen  Dix  had  just  brought  in  a  glass  pitcher,  its 
frosted  sides  proclaiming  its  cool  contents,  when  the 
late  comers  arrived. 

"  Yes,"  Mrs.  Dix  was  saying,  "  Miss  Orr  sent  over 
a  big  piece  of  ice  this  morning  and  she  squeezed  out 
juice  of  I  don't  know  how  many  lemons.  Jim  Dodge 
brought  'em  here  in  the  auto;  and  she  told  him  to  go 
around  and  gather  up  all  the  ladies  that  didn't  have  con 
veyances  of  their  own." 

"  And  that's  how  I  came  to  be  here,"  said  Mrs.  Mix- 
ter.  "  Our  horse  has  gone  lame." 

"  Well  now,  wa'n't  that  lovely  ?  "  crowed  Mrs.  Dag- 
gett,  cooling  her  flushed  face  with  slow  sweeps  of  the 
big  turkey- feather  fan  Mrs.  Dix  handed  her.  "  Ain't 
she  just  the  sweetest  girl  —  always  thinking  of  other 
folks!  I  never  see  anything  like  her." 

A  subtle  expression  of  reserve  crept  over  the  faces  of 
the  attentive  women.  Mrs.  Mixter  tasted  the  contents 
of  her  glass  critically. 

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"  I  don't  know/'  she  said  dryly,  as  if  the  lemonade 
had  failed  to  cool  her  parched  throat,  "  that  depends 
on  how  you  look  at  it." 

Mrs.  Whittle  gave  vent  to  a  cackle  of  rather  discord 
ant  laughter. 

"  That's  just  what  I  was  telling  Abby  on  the 
way  over,"  she  said.  "  Once  in  a  while  you  do  run 
across  a  person  that's  bound  to  make  a  show  of  their 
money." 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  in  a  green  and  white  sprigged 
muslin  dress,  her  water-waves  unusually  crisp  and  con 
spicuous,  bit  off  a  length  of  thread  with  a  meditative 
air. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  that  girl  lived  in  my  house,  off 
an'  on,  for  more  than  two  months.  I  can't  say  as  I 
think  she's  the  kind  that  wants  to  show  off." 

Fifteen  needles  paused  in  their  busy  activities,  and 
twice  as  many  eyes  were  focused  upon  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black.  That  lady  sustained  the  combined  attack  with 
studied  calm.  She  even  smiled,  as  she  jerked  her 
thread  smartly  through  a  breadth  of  red  flannel. 

"  I  s'pose  you  knew  a  lot  more  about  her  in  the  be 
ginning  than  we  did,"  said  Mrs.  Dodge,  in  a  slightly 
offended  tone. 

"  You  must  have  known  something  about  her, 
Phoebe,"  put  in  Mrs.  Fulsom.  "  I  don't  care  what  any 
body  says  to  the  contrary,  there's  something  queer  in  a 
young  girl,  like  her,  coming  to  a  strange  place,  like 
Brookville,  and  doing  all  the  things  she's  done.  It 
ain't  natural :  and  that's  what  I  told  the  Judge  when  he 
was  considering  the  new  waterworks.  There's  a  great 

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deal  of  money  to  be  made  on  waterworks,  the  Judge 
says." 

The  eyes  were  now  focused  upon  Mrs.  Fulsom. 

"  Well,  I  can  tell  you,  she  ain't  looking  to  make 
money  out  of  Brookville,"  said  Abby  Daggett,  laying 
down  her  fan  and  taking  an  unfinished  red  flannel  pet 
ticoat  from  the  basket  on  the  table.  "  Henry  knows 
all  about  her  plans,  and  he  says  it's  the  grandest  idea ! 
The  water's  going  to  be  piped  down  from  the  mountain 
right  to  our  doors  —  an'  it'll  be  just  as  free  as  the 
Water  of  Life  to  anybody  that'll  take  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  who's  going  to  pay  for  digging  up  the 
streets  and  putting  'em  back  ?  "  piped  up  an  anxious 
voice  from  a  corner. 

"  We'd  ought  to,  if  she  does  the  rest,"  said  Mrs. 
Daggett;  "but  Henry  says—" 

"  You  can  be  mighty  sure  there's  a  come-back  in  it 
somewhere,"  was  Mrs.  Whittle's  opinion.  "  The  Dea 
con  says  he  don't  know  whether  to  vote  for  it  or  not. 
We'll  have  rain  before  long;  and  these  droughts  don't 
come  every  summer." 

Ellen  Dix  and  Fanny  Dodge  were  sitting  outside  on 
the  porch.  Both  girls  were  sewing  heart-shaped  pieces 
of  white  cloth  upon  squares  of  turkey-red  calico. 

"  Isn't  it  funny  nobody  seems  to  like  her  ?  "  mur 
mured  Ellen,  tossing  her  head.  "  I  shouldn't  be  sur 
prised  if  they  wouldn't  let  her  bring  the  water  in,  for 
all  she  says  she'll  pay  for  everything  except  putting  it 
in  the  houses." 

Fanny  gazed  at  the  white  heart  in  the  middle  of  the 
red  square. 

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11  It's  awfully  hard  to  sew  these  hearts  on  without 
puckering,"  she  said. 

"  Fan,"  said  Ellen  cautiously,  "  does  the  minister  go 
there  much  now  ?  " 

Fanny  compressed  her  lips. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  she  replied,  her  eyes 
and  fingers  busy  with  an  unruly  heart,  which  de 
clined  to  adjust  itself  to  requirements.  "  What 
are  they  going  to  do  with  this  silly  patchwork,  any 
way?" 

"  Make  an  autograph  quilt  for  the  minister's  birth 
day  ;  didn't  you  know  ?  " 

Fanny  dropped  her  unfinished  work. 

"  I  never  heard  of  anything  so  silly !  "  she  said 
sharply. 

"  Everybody  is  to  write  their  names  in  pencil  on 
these  hearts,"  pursued  Ellen  mischievously ;  "  then 
they're  to  be  done  in  tracing  stitch  in  red  cotton.  In 
the  middle  of  the  quilt  is  to  be  a  big  white  square, 
with  a  large  red  heart  in  it;  that's  supposed  to  be 
Wesley  Elliot's.  It's  to  have  his  monogram  in  stuffed 
letters,  in  the  middle  of  it.  Lois  Daggett's  doing  that 
now.  I  think  it's  a  lovely  idea  —  so  romantic,  you 
know." 

Fanny  did  not  appear  to  be  listening;  her  pretty 
white  forehead  wore  a  frowning  look. 

"  Ellen,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  do  you  ever  see  any 
thing  of  Jim  nowadays  ?  " 

"  Oh !  so  you  thought  you'd  pay  me  back,  did  you  ?  " 
cried  Ellen  angrily.  "  I  never  said  I  cared  a  rap  for 
Jim  Dodge ;  but  you  told  me  a  whole  lot  about  Wesley 

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Elliot :  don't  you  remember  that  night  we  walked  home 
from  the  fair,  and  you  — " 

Fanny  suddenly  put  her  hand  over  her  friend's. 

"  Please  don't  talk  so  loud,  Ellen ;  somebody  will  be 
sure  to  hear.  I'd  forgotten  what  you  said  —  truly, 
I  had.  But  Jim  — " 

"  Well  ?  "  interrogated  Ellen  impatiently,  arching 
her  slender  black  brows. 

"  Let's  walk  down  in  the  orchard,"  proposed  Fanny. 
"  Somebody  else  can  work  on  these  silly  old  hearts,  if 
they  want  to.  My  needle  sticks  so  I  can't  sew,  any 
way." 

"  I've  got  to  help  mother  cut  the  cake,  in  a  min 
ute,"  objected  Ellen. 

But  she  stepped  down  on  the  parched  grass  and  the 
two  friends  were  soon  strolling  among  the  fallen  fruit 
of  a  big  sweet  apple  tree  behind  the  house,  their  arms 
twined  about  each  other's  waists,  their  pretty  heads 
bent  close  together. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  reason  I  spoke  to  you  about  Jim  just 
now,"  said  Fanny,  "  was  because  he's  been 
acting  awfully  queer  lately.     I  thought  per 
haps  you  knew  —  I  know  he  likes  you  better  than  any 
of  the  other  girls.     He  says  you  have  some  sense,  and 
the  others  haven't." 

"  I  guess  that  must  have  been  before  Lydia  Orr 
came  to  Brookville,"  said  Ellen,  in  a  hard,  sweet  voice. 

"  Yes ;  it  was,"  admitted  Fanny  reluctantly. 
"  Everything  seems  to  be  different  since  then." 

"  What  has  Jim  been  doing  that's  any  queerer  than 
usual?  "  inquired  Ellen,  with  some  asperity. 

Fanny  hesitated. 

"You  won't  tell?" 

"  Of  course  not,  if  it's  a  secret." 

"  Cross  your  heart  an'  hope  t'  die  ?  "  quoted  Fanny 
from  their  childhood  days. 

Ellen  giggled. 

"  Cross  m'  heart  an'  hope  t'  die,"  she  repeated. 

"  Well,  Jim's  been  off  on  some  sort  of  a  trip,"  said 
Fanny. 

"  I  don't  see  anything  so  very  queer  about  that." 

"  Wait  till  I  tell  you  —  You  must  be  sure  and  not 
breathe  a  word,  even  to  your  mother ;  you  won't,  will 
you?" 

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"  Fan,  you  make  me  mad !  Didn't  I  just  say  I 
wouldn't?" 

"  Well,  then ;  he  went  with  her  in  the  auto ;  they 
started  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  Jim  didn't 
get  home  till  after  twelve  that  night." 

Ellen  laughed,  with  studied  indifference. 

"  Pity  they  couldn't  have  asked  us  to  go  along,"  she 
said.  "  I'm  sure  the  car's  plenty  big  enough." 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  just  for  fun,"  said  Fanny. 

"  You  don't  ?     What  for,  then  ?  " 

"  I  asked  Jim,  and  he  wouldn't  tell  me." 

"When  did  you  ask  him?" 

"  The  morning  they  went.  I  came  down  about  half 
past  four:  mother  doesn't  get  up  as  early  as  that,  we 
haven't  much  milk  to  look  after  now;  but  I  wake 
up  awfully  early  sometimes,  and  I'd  rather  be  doing 
something  than  lying  there  wide  awake." 

Ellen  squeezed  Fanny's  arm  sympathetically.  She 
herself  had  lost  no  moments  of  healthy  sleep  over  Jim 
Dodge's  fancied  defection;  but  she  enjoyed  imagining 
herself  to  be  involved  in  a  passionate  romance. 

"  Isn't  it  awful  to  lie  awake  and  think  —  and  think, 
and  not  be  able  to  do  a  single  thing!  "  she  said,  with 
a  tragic  gesture. 

Fanny  bent  down  to  look  into  Ellen's  pretty  face. 

"  Why,  Ellen,"  she  said,  "  is  it  as  bad  as  that?  I 
didn't  suppose  you  really  cared." 

She  clasped  Ellen's  slender  waist  closer  and  kissed 
her  fervently. 

Ellen  coaxed  two  shining  tears  into  sparkling  promi 
nence  on  her  long  lashes. 

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"  Oh,  don't  mind  me,  Fan,"  she  murmured ;  "  but  I 
can  sympathize  with  you,  dear.  I  know  exactly  how 
you  feel  —  and  to  think  it's  the  same  girl !  " 

Ellen  giggled  light-heartedly : 

"  Anyway,  she  can't  marry  both  of  them,"  she  fin 
ished. 

Fanny  was  looking  away  through  the  boles  of  the 
gnarled  old  trees,  her  face  grave  and  preoccupied. 

"  Perhaps  I  oughtn't  to  have  told  you,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  you  haven't  told  me  anything,  yet,"  pro 
tested  Ellen.  "  You're  the  funniest  girl,  Fan !  I  don't 
believe  you  know  how  to  —  really  confide  in  anybody. 
If  you'd  tell  me  more  how  you  feel  about  him,  you 
wouldn't  care  half  so  much." 

Fanny  winced  perceptibly.  She  could  not  bear  to 
speak  of  the  secret  —  which  indeed  appeared  to  be  no 
secret  —  she  strove  daily  to  bury  under  a  mountain 
of  hard  work,  but  which  seemed  possessed  of  mysteri 
ous  powers  of  resurrection  in  the  dark  hours  between 
sunset  and  sunrise. 

"  But  there's  nothing  to  —  to  talk  about,  Ellen," 
she  said;  and  in  spite  of  herself  her  voice  sounded 
cold,  almost  menacing. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  if  you  feel  that  way,"  retorted 
Ellen.  "But  I  can  tell  you  one  thing  —  or,  I  might 
tell  you  something;  but  I  guess  I  won't." 

"  Please,  Ellen,—  if  it's  about—" 

"  Well,  it  is." 

Fanny's  eyes  pleaded  hungrily  with  the  naughty 
Ellen. 

"  You  haven't  finished  your  account  of  that  interest- 
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ing  pleasure  excursion  of  Jim's  and  Miss  Orr's,"  said 
Ellen.  "  Isn't  it  lovely  Jim  can  drive  her  car  ?  Is  he 
going  to  be  her  regular  chauffeur  ?  And  do  you  get  an 
occasional  joy-ride?" 

"Of  course  not,"  Fanny  said  indignantly.  "  Oh, 
Ellen,  how  can  you  go  on  like  that!  I'm  sure  you 
don't  care  a  bit  about  Jim  or  me,  either." 

"  I  do!  "  declared  Ellen.  "  I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart,  Fan ;  but  I  don't  know  about  Jim.  I  —  I  might 
have  —  you  know ;  but  if  he's  crazy  over  that  Orr  girl, 
what's  the  use?  There  are  other  men,  just  as  good- 
looking  as  Jim  Dodge  and  not  half  so  sarcastic  and 
disagreeable." 

"  Jim  can  be  disagreeable,  if  he  wants  to,"  conceded 
Jim's  sister.  "  When  I  asked  him  where  he  was  going 
with  the  car  so  early  in  the  morning  —  you  know  he's 
been  bringing  the  car  home  nights  so  as  to  clean  it 
and  fix  the  engine,  till  she  can  get  somebody  —  I  was 
surprised  to  find  him  putting  in  oil  and  tightening  up 
screws  and  things,  when  it  was  scarcely  daylight;  and 
I  said  so.  He  wouldn't  tell  me  a  thing.  '  You  just 
'tend  to  your  own  knitting,  Fan/  was  all  he  said ;  '  per 
haps  you'll  know  some  day;  and  then  again,  perhaps 
you  won't.' ' 

"  And  didn't  you  find  out  ?  "  cried  Ellen,  her  dark 
eyes  alight  with  curiosity.  "If  that  doesn't  sound  ex 
actly  like  Jim  Dodge!  But  you  said  you  heard  him 
when  he  came  in  that  night;  didn't  he  tell  you  any 
thing  then? —  You  don't  think  they  ran  off  to  get 
married?  Oh,  Fan!" 

"Of  course  not,  you  goose!  Do  you  suppose  he'd 
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have  come  back  home  alone,  if  it  had  been  anything 
like  that?" 

Ellen  heaved  a  sigh  of  exaggerated  relief. 

"  *  Be  still,  my  heart ' !  "  she  murmured. 

"  No ;  they  went  to  get  somebody  from  somewhere," 
pursued  Fanny. 

"  To  get  somebody  from  somewhere,"  repeated  Ellen 
impatiently.  "  How  thrilling !  Who  do  you  suppose 
it  was?  " 

Fanny  shook  her  head: 

"  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea." 

"  How  perfectly  funny !  ...  Is  the  somebody  there, 
now?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Jim  won't  tell  me  a  thing  that  goes 
on  there.  He  says  if  there's  anything  on  top  of  the 
earth  he  absolutely  despises  it's  a  gossiping  man.  He 
says  a  gossiping  woman  is  a  creation  of  God  —  must 
be,  there's  so  many  of  'em;  but  a  gossiping  man  —  he 
can't  find  any  word  in  the  dictionary  mean  enough 
for  that  sort  of  a  low-down  skunk." 

Ellen  burst  into  hysterical  laughter. 

"  What  an  idea !  "  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  but  he's  almost 
too  sweet  to  live,  Fan.  Somebody  ought  to  take  him 
down  a  peg  or  two.  Fan,  if  he  proposes  to  that  girl, 
I  hope  she  won't  have  him.  'Twould  serve  him  right !  " 

"  Perhaps  she  won't  marry  anybody  around  here," 
mused  Fanny.  "  Did  you  ever  notice  she  wears  a  thin 
gold  chain  around  her  neck,  Ellen  ?  " 

Ellen  nodded. 

"  Perhaps  there's  a  picture  of  somebody  on  it." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder." 

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Ellen  impatiently  kicked  a  big  apple  out  of  her  way, 
to  the  manifest  discomfiture  of  two  or  three  drunken 
wasps  who  were  battening  on  the  sweet  juices. 

"  I've  got  to  go  back  to  the  house,"  she  said. 
"  Mother'll  be  looking  for  me." 

"  But,  Ellen  —" 

"Well?" 

"  You  said  you  knew  something  — " 

Ellen  yawned. 

"Did  I?" 

"You  know  you  did,  Ellen!     Please—" 

"  'T  wasn't  much." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  only  I  met  the  minister  coming  out 
of  Lydia  Orr's  house  one  day  awhile  ago,  and  he 
was  walking  along  as  if  he'd  been  sent  for —  Never 
even  saw  me.  I  had  a  good  mind  to  speak  to  him,  any 
way  ;  but  before  I  could  think  of  anything  cute  to  say 
he'd  gone  by  —  two-forty  on  a  plank  road !  " 

Fanny  was  silent.  She  was  wishing  she  had  not 
asked  Ellen  to  tell.  Then  instantly  her  mind  began 
to  examine  this  new  aspect  of  her  problem. 

"  He  didn't  look  so  awfully  pleased  and  happy," 
Ellen  went  on,  "  his  head  was  down  —  so,  and  he  was 
just  scorching  up  the  road.  Perhaps  they'd  been  hav 
ing  a  scrap." 

"Oh,  no!"  burst  from  Fanny's  lips.  "It  wasn't 
that." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  about  Wesley  Elliot  and 
Lydia  Orr  ?  "  inquired  Ellen  vindictively.  "  You're 
a  whole  lot  like  Jim  —  as  close-mouthed  as  a  molasses 

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jug,  when  you  don't  happen  to  feel  like  talking.  .  .  . 
It  isn't  fair,"  she  went  on  crossly.  "  I  tell  you  every 
thing —  every  single  thing;  and  you  just  take  it  all 
in  without  winking  an  eyelash.  It  isn't  fair !  " 

"  Oh,  Ellen,  please  don't  —  I  can't  bear  it  from 
you!" 

Fanny's  proud  head  drooped  to  her  friend's  shoulder, 
a  stifled  sob  escaped  her. 

"  There  now,  Fan ;  I  didn't  mean  a  word  of  it ! 
I'm  sorry  I  told  you  about  him  —  only  I  thought  he 
looked  so  kind  of  cut  up  over  something  that  maybe  — 
Honest,  Fan,  I  don't  believe  he  likes  her." 

"  You  don't  know,"  murmured  Fanny,  wiping  her 
wet  eyes.  "  I  didn't  tell  you  she  came  to  see  me." 

"She  did!" 

"  Yes ;  it  was  after  we  had  all  been  there,  and  mother 
was  going  on  so  about  the  furniture.  It  all  seemed 
so  mean  and  sordid  to  me,  as  if  we  were  trying  to  — 
well,  you  know." 

Ellen  nodded: 

"  Of  course  I  do.  That's  why  you  wouldn't  let 
her  have  your  furniture.  I  gloried  in  your  spunk, 
Fan." 

"  But  I  did  let  her  have  it,  Ellen." 

"You  did?     Well!" 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  it  happened.  Mother'd  gone 
down  to  the  village,  and  Jim  was  off  somewhere  — 
he's  never  in  the  house  day-times  any  more;  I'd  been 
working  on  the  new  curtains  all  day,  and  I  was  just 
putting  them  up  in  the  parlor,  when  she  came.  .  .  . 
Ellen,  sometimes  I  think  perhaps  we  don't  understand 

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that  girl.  She  was  just  as  sweet  —  If  it  wasn't  for  — 
If  I  hadn't  hardened  my  heart  against  her  almost 
the  first  thing,  you  know,  I  don't  believe  I  could  help 
loving  her." 

"  Fanny !  "  cried  Ellen  protestingly.  "  She  certainly 
is  a  soft-soap  artist.  My  mother  says  she  is  so  re 
fined;  and  Mrs.  Daggett  is  always  chanting  her 
praises." 

"  Think  of  all  she's  done  for  the  village,"  urged 
Fanny.  "  I  want  to  be  just,  even  if  — " 

"  Well,  I  don't!  "  cried  Ellen.  "  I  just  enjoy  being 
real  spiteful  sometimes  —  especially  when  another  girl 
gobbles  all  the  men  in  sight;  and  I  know  I'm  prettier 
than  she  is.  It's  just  because  she's  new  and  —  and 
stylish  and  rich.  What  made  you  give  in  about  your 
furniture,  Fan  ?  " 

"  Because  I  — " 

Fanny  stopped  short,  puckering  her  forehead. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  explain  it,  Ellen ;  but 
I  notice  it  every  time  I  am  with  her.  There's  some 
thing—" 

"  Good  gracious,  Fan !  She  must  have  hypnotized 
you." 

"  Be  quiet,  Ellen,  I'm  trying  to  think  just  how  it  hap 
pened.  She  didn't  say  so  very  much  —  just  sat  down 
and  watched  me,  while  I  sewed  rings  on  the  curtains. 
But  the  first  thing  I  knew,  I  piped  up  and  said :  '  Do 
you  really  want  that  old  furniture  of  mine  so  much? ' 
And  she  said —  Well,  no  matter  what  she  said;  it 
was  more  the  way  she  looked.  I  guess  I'd  have  given 
her  the  eyes  out  of  my  head,  or  any  old  thing." 

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"  That's  just  what  I  told  you,"  interrupted  Ellen. 
"  There  are  people  like  that.  Don't  you  remember  that 
horrid  old  what's-his-name  in  '  Trilby  '  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Ellen,"  said  Fanny  rebukingly. 
"  Well,  I  took  her  up  to  my  room  and  showed  her  my 
bed  and  bureau  and  washstand.  There  were  some 
chairs,  too;  mother  got  them  all  for  my  room  at  that 
old  auction  we've  heard  so  much  about;  I  was  just  a 
baby  then.  I  told  her  about  it.  She  sat  down  in  my 
rocking-chair  by  the  window  and  just  looked  at  the 
things,  without  saying  a  word,  at  first.  After  a  while, 
she  said :  '  Your  mother  used  to  come  in  and  tuck  the 
blankets  around  you  nice  and  warm  in  the  night ;  didn't 
she?'" 

"  '  Why,  I  suppose  she  did,'  I  told  her.  '  Mother's 
room  is  right  next  to  mine.'  .  .  .  Ellen,  there  was  a 
look  in  her  eyes  —  I  can't  tell  you  about  it  —  you 
wouldn't  understand.  And,  anyway,  I  didn't  care  a 
bit  about  the  furniture.  *  You  can  have  it,'  I  said.  *  I 
don't  want  it,  and  I  don't  see  why  you  do;  it  isn't 
pretty  any  more/  I  thought  she  was  going  to  cry,  for 
a  minute.  Then  such  a  soft  gladness  came  over  her 
face.  She  came  up  to  me  and  took  both  my  hands  in 
hers;  but  all  she  said  was  '  Thank  you/  ' 

"  And  did  she  pay  you  a  whole  lot  for  it?  "  inquired 
Ellen  sordidly. 

"  I  didn't  think  anything  about  that  part  of  it," 
said  Fanny.  "Jim  carried  it  all  over  the  next  day, 
with  a  lot  of  old  stuff  mother  had.  Jim  says  she's 
had  a  man  from  Grenoble  working  in  the  barn  for 
weeks  and  weeks,  putting  everything  in  order.  My 

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old  set  was  painted  over,  with  all  the  little  garlands  and 
blue  ribbons,  like  new." 

"  But  how  much  — "  persisted  Ellen.  "  She  must 
have  paid  you  a  lot  for  it." 

"I  didn't  ask  mother,"  said  Fanny.  "I  didn't 
want  to  know.  I've  got  a  new  set;  it's  real  pretty. 
You  must  come  over  and  see  my  room,  now  it's  all 
finished." 

What  Fanny  did  not  tell  Ellen  was  that  after 
Lydia's  departure  she  had  unexpectedly  come  upon 
the  photograph  of  the  picnic  group  under  a  book  on 
her  table.  The  faded  picture  with  its  penciled  words 
had  meant  much  to  Fanny.  She  had  not  forgotten, 
she  told  herself,  she  could  never  forget,  that  day  in 
June,  before  the  unlooked-for  arrival  of  the  strange 
girl,  whose  coming  had  changed  everything.  Once 
more  she  lived  over  in  imagination  that  perfect  day, 
with  its  white  clouds  floating  high  in  the  blue,  and 
the  breath  of  clover  on  the  wind.  She  and  Wesley 
Elliot  had  gone  quietly  away  into  the  woods  after  the 
boisterous  merriment  of  the  picnic  luncheon. 

"  It's  safe  enough,  as  long  as  we  follow  the  stream," 
Fanny  had  assured  him,  piloting  the  way  over  fallen 
logs  and  through  dense  thickets  of  pine  and  laurel,  fur 
ther  and  further  away  from  the  sounds  of  shrill  laugh 
ter  and  the  smoky  smell  of  the  camp  fire,  where  the 
girls  were  still  busy  toasting  marshmallows  on  long 
sticks  for  the  youths  who  hovered  in  the  rear. 

The  minister  had  expressed  a  keen  desire  to  hear 
the  rare  notes  of  the  hermit  thrush ;  and  this  romantic 
quest  led  them  deep  into  the  forest.  The  girl  paused 

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at  last  on  the  brink  of  a  pool,  where  they  could  see 
the  shadowy  forms  of  brook  trout  gliding  through 
the  clear,  cold  water. 

"  If  we  are  quiet  and  listen,"  she  told  him,  "  I  think 
we  shall  hear  the  hermit." 

On  a  carpet  of  moss,  thicker  and  softer  than  a 
deep-piled  rug,  they  sat  down.  Not  a  sound  broke 
the  stillness  but  the  gurgle  of  water  and  the  soft 
soughing  of  the  wind  through  great  tree  tops.  The 
minister  bared  his  head,  as  if  aware  of  the  holy  spirit 
of  solitude  in  the  place.  Neither  spoke  nor  stirred; 
but  the  girl's  heart  beat  loud  —  so  loud  she  feared  he 
might  hear,  and  drew  her  little  cape  closer  above  her 
breast.  Then  all  at  once,  ringing  down  the  somber 
aisles  of  the  forest  came  the  song  of  the  solitary  bird, 
exquisite,  lonely,  filled  with  an  indescribable,  yearning 
sweetness.  The  man's  eloquent  eyes  met  her  own  in  a 
long  look. 

"  Wonderful !  "  he  murmured. 

His  hand  sought  and  closed  upon  hers  for  an  in 
stant.  Then  without  further  speech  they  returned  to 
the  picnickers.  Someone  —  she  thought  it  was  Joyce 
Fulsom  —  snapped  the  joyous  group  at  the  moment 
of  the  departure.  It  had  been  a  week  later,  that  he 
had  written  the  words  "  Lest  we  forget  " — with  a  look 
and  smile  which  set  the  girl's  pulses  fluttering.  But 
that  was  in  June.  Now  it  was  September.  Fanny, 
crouched  by  the  window  where  Lydia  Orr  had  been 
that  afternoon,  stared  coldly  at  the  picture.  It  was 
downright  silly  to  have  carried  it  about  with  her.  She 
had  lost  it  somewhere  —  pulling  out  her  handkerchief, 

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perhaps.  Had  Lydia  Orr  found  and  brought  it  back? 
She  ardently  wished  she  knew ;  but  in  the  meanwhile  — 
She  tore  the  picture  deliberately  across,  thereby  ac 
complishing  unhindered  what  Wesley  Elliot  had  at 
tempted  several  days  before;  then  she  burned  the 
fragments  in  the  quick  spurt  of  a  lighted  match.  .  .  . 
Lest  we  forget,  indeed! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  day  after  the  sewing  society  Ellen  Dix 
went  up  to  her  room,  after  hurriedly  wash 
ing  the  dinner  dishes.     It  was  still  hot,  but 
a  vague  haze  had  crept  across  the  brazen  sky  since 
morning.     Ellen's   room  looked  out  into  cool  green 
depths  of  trees,  so  that  on  a  cloudy  day  it  was  almost 
too  dark  to  examine  the  contents  of  the  closet  opposite 
its  two  east  windows. 

It  was  a  pretty  room,  freshly  papered  and  painted, 
as  were  many  rooms  in  Brookville  since  the  sale  of 
the  old  Bolton  properties.  Nearly  every  one  had 
scrimped  and  saved  and  gone  without  so  long  that  the 
sudden  influx  of  money  into  empty  pockets  had  acted 
like  wine  in  a  hungry  stomach.  Henry  Daggett  had 
thrice  replenished  his  stock  of  wall  papers;  window 
shades  and  curtaining  by  the  yard  had  been  in  con 
stant  demand  for  weeks;  bright  colored  chintzes  and 
gay  flowered  cretonnes  were  apparently  a  prime  neces 
sity  in  many  households.  As  for  paper  hangers  and 
painters,  few  awaited  their  unhurried  movements.  It 
was  easy  for  anybody  with  energy  and  common  sense 
to  wield  a  paintbrush ;  and  old  paper  could  be  scraped 
off  and  fresh  strips  applied  by  a  simple  application 
of  flour  paste  and  the  fundamental  laws  of  physics. 
One  improvement  clamors  loudly  for  another,  and 

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money  was  still  coming  in  from  the  most  unexpected 
sources,  so  new  furniture  was  bought  to  take  the  place 
of  unprized  chairs  and  tables  long  ago  salvaged  from 
the  Bolton  wreck.  And  since  Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle's 
dream  parlor,  with  its  marble-tops  and  plush-uphol 
stered  furniture,  had  become  a  solid  reality,  other  par 
lors  burgeoned  forth  in  multi-colored  magnificence. 
Scraggy  old  shrubs  were  trimmed ;  grass  was  cut  in 
unkempt  dooryards ;  flowers  were  planted  —  and  all 
because  of  the  lavish  display  of  such  improvements  at 
Bolton  House,  as  "  that  queer  Orr  girl "  persisted  in 
calling  it;  thereby  flying  in  the  face  of  public  opinion 
and  local  prejudice  in  a  way  which  soured  the  milk 
of  human  kindness  before  the  cream  of  gratitude  could 
rise. 

Everybody  agreed  that  there  was  something  mys 
terious,  if  not  entirely  unnatural  in  the  conduct  of  the 
young  woman.  Nobody  likes  unsolved  riddles  for 
long.  The  moment  or  century  of  suspense  may  prove 
interesting  —  even  exciting;  but  human  intelligence 
resents  the  Sphynx. 

Ellen  Dix  was  intensely  human.  She  was,  more 
over,  jealous  —  or  supposed  she  was,  which  often 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  And  because  of  this  she 
was  looking  over  the  dresses,  hanging  on  pegs  along 
her  closet  wall,  with  a  demurely  puckered  brow.  The 
pink  muslin  was  becoming,  but  old-fashioned ;  the 
pale  yellow  trimmed  with  black  velvet  might  get  soiled 
with  the  dust,  and  she  wasn't  sure  it  would  wash.  She 
finally  selected  a  white  dress  of  a  new  and  becoming 
style,  attired  in  which  she  presently  stood  before  her 
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mirror  adjusting  a  plain  Panama  hat,  trimmed  simply 
with  a  black  ribbon.  Not  for  nothing  had  Ellen  used 
her  handsome  dark  eyes.  She  set  the  hat  over  her 
black  hair  at  exactly  the  right  angle,  skewering  it 
securely  in  place  with  two  silver  pins,  also  severely 
simple  in  their  style  and  quite  unlike  the  glittering 
rhinestone  variety  offered  for  sale  in  Henry  Daggett's 
general  store. 

"  I'm  going  out  for  a  while,  mother,"  she  said,  as 
she  passed  the  room  where  Mrs.  Dix  was  placidly  sew 
ing  carpet  rags  out  of  materials  prodigiously  increased 
of  late,  since  both  women  had  been  able  to  afford  sev 
eral  new  dresses. 

"  Going  to  Fanny's?"  inquired  Mrs.  Dix.  .  .  . 
"  Seems  to  me  you're  starting  out  pretty  early,  dear, 
in  all  this  heat.  If  you'll  wait  till  sundown,  I'll  go 
with  you.  I  haven't  seen  their  parlor  since  they  got 
the  new  curtains  up." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  Fanny's,  right  off,"  said  Ellen 
evasively.  "  Maybe  I'll  stop  on  the  way  back,  though. 
'Tisn't  very  hot;  it's  clouded  up  some." 

"  Better  taken  an  umbrella,"  her  mother  sent  after 
her.  "  We  might  get  a  thunder  storm  along  towards 
four  o'clock.  My  shoulder's  been  paining  me  all  the 
morning." 

But  Ellen  had  already  passed  out  of  hearing,  her 
fresh  skirts  held  well  away  from  the  dusty  wayside 
weeds. 

She  was  going,  with  intentions  undefined,  to  see 
Lydia  Orr.  Perhaps  (she  was  thinking)  she  might 
see  Jim  Dodge.  Anyway,  she  wanted  to  go  to  Bol- 

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ton  House.  She  would  find  out  for  herself  wherein 
lay  the  curious  fascination  of  which  Fanny  had  spoken. 
She  was  surprised  at  Fanny  for  so  easily  giving  in 
about  the  furniture.  Secretly,  she  considered  herself 
to  be  possibly  a  bit  shrewder  than' Fanny.  In  reality 
she  was  not  as  easily  influenced,  and  slower  at  form 
ing  conclusions.  She  possessed  a  mind  of  more  scope. 
Ellen  walked  along,  setting  her  pointed  feet  down 
very  carefully  so  as  not  to  raise  the  dust  and  soil  her 
nice  skirts.  She  was  a  dainty  creature.  When  she 
reached  the  hedge  which  marked  the  beginning  of  the 
Bolton  estate,  she  started,  not  violently,  that  was  not 
her  way,  but  anybody  is  more  startled  at  the  sudden 
glimpse  of  a  figure  at  complete  rest,  almost  rigidity, 
than  of  a  figure  in  motion.  Had  the  old  man  whom 
Ellen  saw  been  walking  along  toward  her,  she  would 
not  have  started  at  all.  She  might  have  glanced  at 
him  with  passing  curiosity,  since  he  was  a  stranger  in 
Brookville,  then  that  would  have  been  the  end  of  it. 
But  this  old  man,  standing  as  firmly  fixed  as  a  statue 
against  the  hedge,  startled  the  girl.  He  was  rather 
a  handsome  old  man,  but  there  was  something  peculiar 
about  him.  For  one  thing  he  was  better  dressed  than 
old  men  in  Brookville  generally  were.  He  wore  a 
light  Palm  Beach  cloth  suit,  possibly  too  young  for 
him,  also  a  Panama  hat.  He  did  not  look  altogether 
tidy.  He  did  not  wear  his  up-to-date  clothes  very 
well.  He  had  a  rumpled  appearance.  He  was  very 
pale  almost  with  the  paleness  of  wax.  He  did  not 
stand  strongly,  but  rested  his  weight  first  on  one  foot, 
then  on  the  other.  Ellen  recovered  her  composure, 

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but  as  she  was  passing,  he  spoke  suddenly.  His  tone 
was  eager  and  pitiful.  "  Why  Ann  Eliza  Dix,"  he 
said.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  You  are  not  going  to  pass 
without  speaking  to  me?" 

"  My  name  is  Dix,  but  not  Ann  Eliza,"  said  Ellen 
politely ;  "  my  name  is  Ellen." 

"  You  are  Cephas  Dix's  sister,  Ann  Eliza,"  insisted 
the  old  man.  His  eyes  looked  suddenly  tearful.  "  I 
know  I  am  right,"  he  said.  "You  are  Ann  Eliza 
Dix." 

The  girl  felt  a  sudden  pity.  Her  Aunt  Ann  Eliza 
Dix  had  been  lying  in  her  grave  for  ten  years,  but 
she  could  not  contradict  the  poor  man.  "Of  course," 
she  said.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  " 

The  old  man's  face  lit  up.  "  I  knew  I  was  right," 
he  said.  "  I  forget,  you  see,  sometimes,  but  this  time 
I  was  sure.  How  are  you,  Ann  Eliza  ? " 

"  Very  well,  thank  you." 

"How  is  Cephas?" 

"  He  is  well,  too." 

"And  your  father?" 

Ellen  shivered  a  little.  It  was  rather  bewildering. 
This  strange  old  man  must  mean  her  grandfather, 
who  had  died  before  her  Aunt  Ann  Eliza.  She  re 
plied  faintly  that  he  was  well,  and  hoped,  with  a  qualm 
of  ghastly  mirth,  that  she  was  speaking  the  truth. 
Ellen's  grandfather  had  not  been  exactly  a  godly  man, 
and  the  family  seldom  mentioned  him. 

"  He  means  well,  Ann  Eliza,  if  sometimes  you  don't 
exactly  like  the  way  he  does,"  said  the  living  old  man, 
excusing  the  dead  one  for  the  faults  of  his  life. 

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"  I  know  he  does,"  said  Ellen.  The  desire  to 
laugh  grew  upon  her. 

She  was  relieved  when  the  stranger  changed  the 
subject.  She  felt  that  she  would  become  hysterical 
if  this  forcible  resurrection  of  her  dead  relatives  con 
tinued. 

"  Do  you  like  an  automobile  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  I  don't  know,  I  never  had  one." 

The  stranger  looked  at  her  confidingly.  "  My 
daughter  has  one,"  he  said,  "  and  I  know  she  bought  it 
for  me,  and  she  has  me  taken  out  in  it,  but  I  am  afraid. 
It  goes  too  fast.  I  can't  get  over  being  afraid.  But 
you  won't  tell  her,  will  you,  Ann  Eliza?  " 

"  Of  course  I  won't." 

Ellen  continued  to  gaze  at  him,  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

"Let  me  see,  what  is  your  name,  my  dear?"  the 
man  went  on.  He  was  leaning  on  his  stick,  and  Ellen 
noticed  that  he  trembled  slightly,  as  though  with  weak 
ness.  He  breathed  hard.  The  veinous  hands  folded 
on  top  of  the  stick  were  almost  as  white  as  his  ears. 

"  My  name  is  Ellen  Dix,"  she  said. 

"  Dix  —  Dix  ?  "  repeated  the  man.  "  Why,  I  know 
that  name,  certainly,  of  course!  You  must  be  the 
daughter  of  Cephas  Dix.  Odd  name,  Cephas,  eh?" 

Ellen  nodded,  her  eyes  still  busy  with  the  details 
of  the  stranger's  appearance.  She  was  sure  she  had 
never  seen  him  before,  yet  he  knew  her  father's 
name. 

"  My  father  has  been  dead  a  long  time,"  she  said; 
"  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl." 

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The  man  appeared  singularly  disquieted  by  this  in 
telligence.  "  I  hadn't  heard  that,"  he  said.  "  Dead 
—  a  long  time?  Well!" 

He  scowled,  flourishing  his  stick  as  if  to  pass  on; 
then  settled  to  his  former  posture,  his  pale  hands 
folded  on  its  handsome  gold  top. 

"  Cephas  Dix  wasn't  an  old  man,"  he  muttered,  as 
if  talking  to  himself.  "  Not  old.  He  should  be  hale 
and  hearty,  living  in  this  good  country  air.  Wonder 
ful  air  this,  my  dear." 

And  he  drew  a  deep  breath,  his  wandering  gaze  re 
turning  swiftly  to  the  girl's  face. 

"  I  was  just  walking  out,"  he  said,  nodding  briskly. 
"  Great  treat  to  be  able  to  walk  out.  I  shall  walk  out 
whenever  I  like.  Don't  care  for  automobiles  —  get 
you  over  the  road  too  fast.  No,  no;  I  won't  go  out 
in  the  automobile,  unless  I  feel  like  it!  No,  I  won't; 
and  there's  an  end  of  it !  " 

He  brought  his  stick  down  heavily  in  the  dust,  as 
if  emphasizing  this  statement. 

"  Guess  your  father  left  you  pretty  well  off,  eh, 
my  dear?  "  he  went  on  presently.  "  Glad  to  see  you 
looking  so  fresh  and  neat.  Always  like  to  see  a  pretty 
girl  well  dressed." 

The  man's  eyes,  extraordinarily  bright  and  keen, 
roved  nimbly  over  her  face  and  figure. 

"  No,  he  did  not,"  replied  Ellen.  "  My  father  used 
to  be  rich,"  she  went  on.  "  I've  heard  mother  tell 
about  it  hundreds  of  times.  We  had  horses  and  a 
carriage  and  plenty  of  money ;  but  when  the  bank  went 
to  pieces  my  father  lost  everything.  Then  he  died." 

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The  man  was  peering  at  her  from  under  his  shaggy 
gray  brows. 

"  But  not  because  the  bank  failed  ?  Surely  not  be 
cause  he  lost  his  money?  That  sort  of  thing  doesn't 
kill  a  man,  my  dear.  No,  no !  " 

"  It  did,"  declared  Ellen  firmly. 

The  man  at  once  seemed  to  grow  smaller;  to  hud 
dle  together  in  his  clothes.  He  muttered  something 
unintelligible,  then  turned  squarely  about,  so  that  Ellen 
could  see  only  his  hunched  back  and  the  glistening 
white  hair  cut  close  behind  his  waxen  ears. 

The  girl  walked  thoughtfully  on,  but  when  she 
paused  to  look  back  she  saw  that  he  had  resumed  his 
slow  walk  in  the  opposite  direction,  his  stick  describ 
ing  odd  flourishes  in  the  air,  as  before. 

When  she  reached  Bolton  House  she  was  ushered 
into  a  beautiful  parlor  by  a  prim  maid  in  a  frilled  cap 
and  apron.  The  maid  presented  to  her  attention  a 
small  silver  tray,  and  Ellen,  blushing  uncomfortably 
because  she  had  no  card,  asked  for  Miss  Orr. 

Soon  the  frilled  maid  reappeared.  "  I'm  sorry, 
Miss,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  Miss  Lydia  was  at  home, 
but  I  can't  find  her  anywheres  about." 

She  eyed  Ellen's  trim  figure  doubtfully.  "If  there 
was  any  message  — " 

"  No,"  said  Ellen.     "  I  only  came  to  call." 

"  I'm  real  sorry,  Miss,"  repeated  the  maid.  "  Miss 
Lydia'll  be  sorry,  too.  Who  shall  I  say,  please  ?  " 

"Miss  Dix,"  replied  Ellen.  She  walked  past  the 
maid,  who  held  the  door  wide  for  her  exit.  Then  she 
paused.  A  surprising  sight  met  her  eyes.  Lydia  Orr, 

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hatless,  flushed  as  if  by  rapid  flight,  was  just  reach 
ing  the  steps,  convoying  the  strange  old  man  Ellen  had 
met  on  the  road  a  short  time  before. 

The  maid  at  her  back  gave  a  little  cry.  Ellen  stood 
staring.  So  this  was  the  person  Jim  Dodge  had  gone 
to  fetch  from  somewhere ! 

"  But  it  isn't  too  warm  for  me  to  be  walking  out  to 
take  the  air,"  she  heard,  in  the  heavy  mumble  of  the 
man's  voice.  "  I  don't  like  being  watched,  Lydia ;  and 
I  won't  stand  it,  either.  I  might  as  well  be  — " 

Lydia  interrupted  him  with  a  sharp  exclamation. 
She  had  caught  sight  of  Ellen  Dix  standing  under  the 
deep  portico,  the  scared  face  of  the  maid  looking  over 
her  shoulder. 

Ellen's  face  crimsoned  slowly.  All  at  once  she 
felt  unaccountably  sorry  and  ashamed.  She  wished 
she  had  not  come.  She  felt  that  she  wanted  nothing 
so  much  as  to  hurry  swiftly  away. 

But  Lydia  Orr,  still  holding  the  strange  old  man  by 
the  arm,  was  already  coming  up  the  steps. 

"  I'll  not  go  in  the  automobile,  child,"  he  repeated, 
with  an  obstinate  flourish  of  his  stick.  "  I  don't 
like  to  ride  so  fast.  I  want  to  see  things.  I 
want  — " 

He  stopped  short,  his  mouth  gaping,  his  eyes  staring 
at  Ellen. 

"That  girl!"  he  almost  shouted.  "She  told  me 
—  I  don't  want  her  here.  .  .  .  Go  away,  girl,  you 
make  my  head  hurt !  " 

Lydia  flashed  a  beseeching  look  at  Ellen,  as  she  led 
the  old  man  past. 

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"  Please  come  in,"  she  said;  "  I  shall  be  at  liberty  in 
just  a  moment.  .  .  .  Come,  father ! " 

Ellen  hesitated. 

"  Perhaps  I'd  better  not,  today,"  she  murmured,  and 
slowly  descended  the  steps. 

The  discreet  maid  closed  the  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ELLEN    did   not   at   once    return   home.     She 
walked  on  reflecting.     So  the  old  man  was 
Lydia  Orr's  father!    And  she  was  the  first 
to  know  it! 

The  girl  had  never  spoken  of  her  father,  Ellen  was 
sure.  Had  she  done  so,  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  would 
certainly  have  told  Mrs.  Whittle,  and  Mrs.  Whittle 
would  have  informed  Mrs.  Daggett,  and  thence,  by 
way  of  Mrs.  Dodge  and  Fanny,  the  news  would  long 
ago  have  reached  Ellen  and  her  mother. 

Before  she  had  covered  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the 
dusty  road,  Ellen  heard  the  muffled  roar  of  an  over 
taking  motor  car.  She  glanced  up,  startled  and  half 
choked  with  the  enveloping  cloud  of  dust.  Jim  Dodge 
was  driving  the  car.  He  slowed  down  and  stopped. 

"  Hello,  Ellen.  Going  down  to  the  village  ?  Get 
in  and  I'll  take  you  along,"  he  called  out. 

"  All  right,"  said  Ellen,  jumping  in. 

"  I  haven't  seen  you  for  an  age,  Jim,"  said  Ellen 
after  awhile. 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  Does  it  seem  that  long 
to  you,  Ellen?" 

"  No,  why  should  it?  "  she  returned. 

"I  say,  Ellen,"  said  Jim,  "I  saw  you  when  you 
came  out  of  Bolton  House  just  now." 

"Did  you?" 

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"  Yes."  He  looked  sharply  at  Ellen,  who  smiled 
evasively. 

"  I  was  going  to  call,"  she  said  with  an  innocent 
air,  "  but  Miss  Orr  had  —  a  visitor." 

"  Look  here,  Ellen ;  don't  let's  beat  about  the  bush. 
Nobody  knows  he's  there,  yet,  except  myself  and  — 
you.  You  met  him  on  the  road;  didn't  you?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ellen,  "  I  met  him  on  the  road." 

"Did  he  talk  to  you?" 

"  He  asked  me  what  my  name  was.  He's  crazy, 
isn't  he,  Jim?" 

The  young  man  frowned  thoughtfully  at  his  steer 
ing  wheel. 

"  Not  exactly,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.  "  He's  been 
sick  a  long  time  and  his  mind  is  —  well,  I  think  it  has 
been  somewhat  affected.  Did  he —  He  didn't  talk 
to  you  about  himself,  did  he?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  for?  " 

"  Oh,  he  appeared  rather  excited,  and  — " 

"  Yes ;  I  noticed  that."     She  laughed  mischievously. 

Jim  frowned.  "  Come,  Ellen,  quit  this  nonsense ! 
What  did  he  say  to  you?" 

"If  you  mean  Mr.  Orr—" 

He  turned  his  eyes  from  the  road  to  stare  at  her 
for  an  instant. 

"Did  he  tell  you  his  name  was  Orr?"  he  asked 
sharply. 

It  was  Ellen's  turn  to  stare. 

"  Why,  if  he  is  Miss  Orr's  father  — "  she  began. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  said  Jim  hurriedly.  "  I  was  just 
wondering  if  he  had  introduced  himself." 

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Ellen  was  silent.  She  was  convinced  that  there 
was  some  mystery  about  the  pale  old  man. 

"  He  said  a  lot  of  awfully  queer  things  to  me,"  she 
admitted,  after  a  pause  during  which  Jim  turned  the 
car  into  a  side  road.  ..."  I  thought  you  were  going 
to  the  village." 

"  This  will  take  us  to  the  village  —  give  you  a  longer 
ride,  Ellen.  I'll  take  you  home  afterwards." 

"After  what?" 

"  Why,  after  we've  got  the  mail  —  or  whatever 
you  want." 

"  Don't  you  think  Miss  Orr  and  that  queer  old  Mr. 

If  his  name  isn't  Orr,  Jim,  what  is  it?  "  She 

shot  a  quick  glance  at  him. 

"  Good  Lord!  "  muttered  Jim  profanely. 

He  drew  the  car  up  at  the  side  of  the  road  and 
stopped  it. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  inquired  Ellen,  in 
some  alarm.  "  Won't  it  go?  " 

"  When  I  get  ready,"  said  Jim. 

He  turned  and  faced  her  squarely : 

"  We'll  have  this  out,  before  we  go  a  foot  further! 
I  won't  have  the  whole  town  talking,"  he  said  savagely. 

Ellen  said  nothing.     She  was  rather  angry. 

"The  devil!"  cried  Jim  Dodge.  "What's  the 
matter  with  you,  Ellen?" 

"With  me?"  she  repeated. 

"Yes.     Why  can't  you  talk?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  I  want  to  go  home," 
she  said. 

He  seized  her  roughly  by  the  wrist.  "  Ellen,"  he 
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said,  "  I  believe  you  know  more  than  you  are  willing 
to  tell."  He  stared  down  into  her  eyes.  "  What  did 
he  say  to  you,  anyway  ?  " 

"Who?" 

"  You  know  well  enough.  The  old  man.  Lord, 
what  a  mess !  " 

"  Please  let  me  go,  Jim,"  said  Ellen.  "  Now  look 
here,  I  know  absolutely  nothing  except  what  I  have 
told  you,  and  I  want  to  go  home." 

"Ellen!" 

"Well?" 

"  Can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  can,  Jim!"  She  met  his  dark  gaze 
squarely. 

"  Well,  rather  than  have  you  spreading  a  piece  of 
damnable  gossip  over  the  village —  Of  course  you 
would  have  told  everybody." 

"  You  mean  about  meeting  the  old  man  ?  But  won't 
everybody  know?  If  he  goes  out  and  talks  to  people 
as  he  did  to  me  ?  " 

"  You  haven't  told  me  what  he  said." 

Ellen  raised  her  brows  with  a  mischievous  air. 

"  I  didn't  care  to  spread  any  —  what  sort  of  gossip 
did  you  say,  Jim?" 

"  Confound  it !     I  didn't  mean  that." 

"Of  course  I  could  see  he  was  some  one  who  used 
to  live  here,"  she  went  on.  "  He  knew  father." 

Jim  had  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  trousers' 
pockets.  He  uttered  an  impatient  ejaculation. 

"  And  he  said  he  should  go  out  whenever  he  felt 
like  it.  He  doesn't  like  the  automobile." 

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"  Oh,  it's  an  impossible  proposition.  I  see  that 
plainly  enough!"  Jim  said,  as  if  to  himself.  "But 
it  seems  a  pity — " 

He  appeared  to  plunge  into  profound  meditation. 

"  I  say,  Ellen,  you  like  her ;  don't  you  ?  .  .  .  Don't 
see  how  you  can  help  it.  She's  a  wonder ! " 

"Who?     MissOrr?" 

"Of  course!  Say,  Ellen,  if  you  knew  what  that 
girl  has  gone  through,  without  a  murmur;  and  now 
I'm  afraid  —  By  George !  we  ought  to  spare  her." 

"We?" 

"  Yes ;  you  and  I.  You  can  do  a  lot  to  help,  Ellen, 
if  you  will.  That  old  man  you  saw  is  sick,  hardly 
sane.  And  no  wonder." 

He  stopped  short  and  stared  fixedly  at  his  compan 
ion. 

"Did  you  guess  who  he  was?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

Ellen  reflected.  "  I  can  guess  —  if  you'll  give  me 
time." 

Jim  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "  That's  just  what 
I  thought,"  he  growled.  "There'll  be  the  devil  to 
pay  generally." 

"Jim,"  said  Ellen  earnestly,  "if  we  are  to  help 
her,  you  must  tell  me  all  about  that  old  man." 

"She  wanted  to  tell  everybody,"  he  recollected 
gloomily.  "  And  why  not  you  ?  Imagine  an  innocent 
child  set  apart  from  the  world  by  another's  crime, 
Ellen.  See,  if  you  can,  that  child  growing  up,  with 
but  one  thought,  one  ideal  —  the  welfare  of  that  other 
person.  Picture  to  yourself  what  it  would  be  like  to 
Jive  solely  to  make  a  great  wrong  right,  and  to  save 

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the  wrongdoer.  Literally,  Ellen,  she  has  borne  that 
man's  grief  and  carried  his  sorrow,  as  truly  as  any 
vaunted  Saviour  of  the  world.  Can  you  see  it?  " 

"Do  you  mean — ?  Is  that  why  she  calls  it  Bol- 
ton  House?  Of  course!  And  that  dreadful  old  man 
is  —  But,  Jim,  everybody  will  find  it  out." 

"You're  right,"  he  acknowledged.  "But  they 
mustn't  find  it  out  just  yet.  We  must  put  it  off  till 
the  man  can  shake  that  hang-dog  air  of  his.  Why,  he 
can't  even  walk  decently.  Prison  is  written  all  over 
him.  Thank  God,  she  doesn't  seem  to  see  it ! " 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  told  me,  Jim,"  said  Ellen  gently. 

"  You  won't  say  a  word  about  this,  will  you,  Ellen  ?  " 
he  asked  anxiously.  "  I  can  depend  on  you  ?  " 

"  Give  me  a  little  credit  for  decency  and  common 
sense,"  replied  Ellen. 

Jim  bent  over  the  wheel  and  kissed  her. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

RAIN  was  falling  in  torrents,  slanting  past  the 
windows  of  the  old  parsonage  in  long  gray 
lines,  gurgling  up  between  loosened  panes, 
and  drip-dropping  resoundingly  in  the  rusty  pan  the 
minister  had  set  under  a  broken  spot  in  the  ceiling. 
Upstairs  a  loosened  shutter  banged  intermittently  un 
der  the  impact  of  the  wind,  which  howled  past,  to  lose 
itself  with  great  commotion  in  the  tops  of  the  tall 
evergreens  in  the  churchyard.  It  was  the  sort  of  day 
when  untoward  events,  near  and  far,  stand  out  with 
unpleasant  prominence  against  the  background  of 
one's  everyday  life.  A  day  in  which  a  man  is  led, 
whether  he  will  or  not,  to  take  stock  of  himself  and  to 
balance  with  some  care  the  credit  and  debit  sides  of 
his  ledger. 

Wesley  Elliot  had  been  working  diligently  on  his 
sermon  since  nine  o'clock  that  morning,  at  which  hour 
he  had  deserted  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  comfortable 
tight  roof,  to  walk  under  the  inadequate  shelter  of  a 
leaking  umbrella  to  the  parsonage. 

Three  closely  written  pages  in  the  minister's  neat 
firm  handwriting  attested  his  uninterrupted  diligence. 
At  the  top  of  the  fourth  page  he  set  a  careful  numeral, 
under  it  wrote  "  Thirdly,"  then  paused,  laid  down  his 
pen,  yawned  wearily  and  gazed  out  at  the  dripping 

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shrubbery.  The  rain  had  come  too  late  to  help  the 
farmers,  he  was  thinking.  It  was  always  that  way: 
too  much  sunshine  and  dry  weather;  then  too  much 
rain  —  floods  of  it,  deluges  of  it. 

He  got  up  from  his  chair,  stretched  his  cramped 
limbs  and  began  marching  up  and  down  the  floor.  He 
had  fully  intended  to  get  away  from  Brookville  before 
another  winter  set  in.  But  there  were  reasons  why  he 
felt  in  no  hurry  to  leave  the  place.  He  compelled 
himself  to  consider  them. 

Was  he  in  love  with  Lydia  Orr?  Honestly,  he 
didn't  know.  He  had  half  thought  he  was,  for  a 
•whole  month,  during  which  Lydia  had  faced  him 
across  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  table  three  times  a 
day. 

As  he  walked  up  and  down,  he  viewed  the  situation. 
Lydia  had  declared,  not  once  but  often,  that  she  wanted 
friends.  Women  always  talked  that  way,  and  meant 
otherwise.  But  did  she?  The  minister  shook  his 
head  dubiously.  He  thought  of  Lydia  Orr,  of  her 
beauty,  of  her  elusive  sweetness.  He  was  ashamed  to 
think  of  her  money,  but  he  owned  to  himself  that  he 
did. 

Then  he  left  his  study  and  rambled  about  the  chill 
rooms  of  the  lower  floor.  From  the  windows  of  the 
parlor,  where  he  paused  to  stare  out,  he  could  look 
for  some  distance  up  the  street.  He  noticed  dully 
the  double  row  of  maples  from  which  yellowed  leaves 
were  already  beginning  to  fall  and  the  ugly  fronts 
of  houses,  behind  their  shabby  picket  fences.  A 
wagon  was  creaking  slowly  through  a  shallow  sea  of 
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mud  which  had  been  dust  the  day  before :  beyond  the 
hunched  figure  of  the  teamster  not  a  human  being  was 
in  sight.  Somewhere,  a  dog  barked  fitfully  and  was 
answered  by  other  dogs  far  away;  and  always  the 
shutter  banged  at  uncertain  intervals  upstairs.  This 
nuisance,  at  least,  could  be  abated.  He  presently  lo 
cated  the  shutter  and  closed  it;  then,  because  its  fas 
tening  had  rusted  quite  away,  sought  for  a  bit  of  twine 
in  his  pocket  and  was  about  to  tie  it  fast  when  the 
wind  wrenched  it  again  from  his  hold.  As  he  thrust 
a  black-coated  arm  from  the  window  to  secure  the 
unruly  disturber  of  the  peace  he  saw  a  man  fumbling 
with  the  fastening  of  the  parsonage  gate.  Before  he 
could  reach  the  foot  of  the  stairs  the  long  unused 
doorbell  jangled  noisily. 

He  did  not  recognize  the  figure  which  confronted 
him  on  the  stoop,  when  at  last  he  succeeded  in  undoing 
the  door.  The  man  wore  a  raincoat  turned  up  about 
his  chin  and  the  soft  brim  of  a  felt  hat  dripped  water 
upon  its  close-buttoned  front. 

"  Good-morning,  good-morning,  sir ! "  said  the 
stranger,  as  if  his  words  had  awaited  the  opening  of 
the  door  with  scant  patience.  "  You  are  the  —  er  — 
local  clergyman,  I  suppose  ?  " 

At  uncertain  periods  Wesley  Elliot  had  been  visited 
by  a  migratory  colporteur,  and  less  frequently  by  im 
pecunious  persons  representing  themselves  to  be  fellow 
warriors  on  the  walls  of  Zion,  temporarily  out  of  am 
munition.  In  the  brief  interval  during  which  he  con 
voyed  the  stranger  from  the  chilly  obscurity  of  the  hall 
to  the  dubious  comfort  of  his  study,  he  endeavored  to 

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place  his  visitor  in  one  of  these  two  classes,  but  with 
out  success. 

"  Didn't  stop  for  an  umbrella,"  explained  the 
man,  rubbing  his  hands  before  the  stove,  in 
which  the  minister  was  striving  to  kindle  a  livelier 
blaze. 

Divested  of  his  dripping  coat  and  hat  he  appeared 
somewhat  stooped  and  feeble;  he  coughed  slightly,  as 
he  gazed  about  the  room. 

"What's  the  matter  here?"  he  inquired  abruptly; 
"  don't  they  pay  you  your  salary?  " 

The  minister  explained  in  brief  his  slight  occupancy 
of  the  parsonage;  whereat  the  stranger  shook  his 
head: 

"  That's  wrong  —  all  wrong,"  he  pronounced : 
"  A  parson  should  be  married  and  have  children  — 
plenty  of  them.  Last  time  I  was  here,  couldn't  hear 
myself  speak  there  was  such  a  racket  of  children  in 
the  hall.  Mother  sick  upstairs,  and  the  kids  sliding 
down  the  banisters  like  mad.  I  left  the  parson  a 
check;  poor  devil!  " 

He  appeared  to  fall  into  a  fit  of  musing,  his  eyes  on 
the  floor. 

"  I  see  you're  wondering  who  I  am,  young  man,"  he 
said  presently.  "  Well,  we're  coming  to  that,  pres 
ently.  I  want  some  advice ;  so  I  shall  merely  put  the 
case  baldly.  ...  I  wanted  advice,  before;  but  the 
parson  of  that  day  couldn't  give  me  the  right  sort. 
Good  Lord!  I  can  see  him  yet:  short  man,  rather 
stout  and  baldish.  Meant  well,  but  his  religion  wasn't 
worth  a  bean  to  me  that  day.  .  .  .  Religion  is  all  very 

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well  to  talk  about  on  a  Sunday ;  broadcloth  coat,  white 
tie  and  that  sort  of  thing;  good  for  funerals,  too, 
when  a  man's  dead  and  can't  answer  back.  Some 
times  I've  amused  myself  wondering  what  a  dead 
man  would  say  to  a  parson,  if  he  could  sit  up  in  his 
coffin  and  talk  five  minutes  of  what's  happened  to 
him  since  they  called  him  dead.  Interesting  to  think 
of  —  eh?  .  .  .  Had  lots  of  time  to  think.  .  .  . 
Thought  of  most  everything  that  ever  happened ;  and 
more  that  didn't." 

"You  are  a  stranger  in  Brookville,  sir?"  observed 
Wesley  Elliot,  politely. 

He  had  already  decided  that  the  man  was  neither  a 
colporteur  nor  a  clerical  mendicant ;  his  clothes  were 
too  good,  for  one  thing. 

The  man  laughed,  a  short,  unpleasant  sound  which 
ended  in  a  fit  of  coughing. 

"A  stranger  in  Brookville?"  he  echoed.  "Well; 
not  precisely.  .  .  .  But  never  mind  that,  young  man. 
Now,  you're  a  clergyman,  and  on  that  account  sup 
posed  to  have  more  than  ordinary  good  judgment : 
what  would  you  advise  a  man  to  do,  who  had  —  er  — 
been  out  of  active  life  for  a  number  of  years.  In  a 
hospital,  we'll  say,  incapacitated,  very  much  so. 
When  he  conies  out,  he  finds  himself  quite  pleasantly 
situated,  in  a  way;  good  home,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing ;  but  not  allowed  to  —  to  use  his  judgment  in 
any  way.  Watched  —  yes,  watched,  by  a  person  who 
ought  to  know  better.  It's  intolerable  —  intolerable! 
Why,  you'll  not  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  I'm  obliged 
to  sneak  out  of  my  own  house  on  the  sly  —  on  the  sly, 

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you  understand,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  needful 
exercise." 

He  stopped  short  and  wiped  his  forehead  with  a 
handkerchief,  the  fineness  of  which  the  minister  noted 
mechanically  —  with  other  details  which  had  before 
escaped  him;  such  as  the  extreme,  yellowish  pallor  of 
the  man's  face  and  hands  and  the  extraordinary  swift 
ness  and  brightness  of  his  eyes.  He  was  conscious 
of  growing  uneasiness  as  he  said: 

"  That  sounds  very  unpleasant,  sir ;  but  as  I  am  not 
in  possession  of  the  facts  — " 

"  But  I  just  told  you,"  interrupted  the  stranger. 
"  Didn't  I  say  — " 

"  You  didn't  make  clear  to  me  what  the  motives  of 
this  person  who  tries  to  control  your  movements  are. 
You  didn't  tell  me  — " 

The  man  moved  his  hand  before  his  face,  like  one 
trying  to  brush  away  imaginary  flies. 

"  I  suppose  she  has  her  motives,"  he  said  fretfully. 
"  And  very  likely  they're  good.  I'll  not  deny  that. 
But  I  can't  make  her  see  that  this  constant  espionage 
—  this  everlasting  watchfulness  is  not  to  be  borne.  I 
want  freedom,  and  by  God  I'll  have  it !  " 

He  sprang  from  his  chair  and  began  pacing  the 
room. 

Wesley  Elliot  stared  at  his  visitor  without  speaking. 
He  perceived  that  the  man  dragged  his  feet,  as  if 
from  excessive  fatigue  or  weakness. 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  such  a  thing,"  the  stranger 
went  on.  "  I'd  planned,  as  a  man  will  who  looks  for 
ward  to  release  from  —  from  a  hospital,  how  I'd  go 

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about  and  see  my  old  neighbors.  I  wanted  to  have 
them  in  for  dinners  and  luncheons  —  people  I  haven't 
seen  for  years.  She  knows  them.  She  can't  excuse 
herself  on  that  ground.  She  knows  you." 

He  stopped  short  and  eyed  the  minister,  a  slow  grin 
spreading  over  his  face. 

"  The  last  time  you  were  at  my  house  I  had  a  good 
mind  to  walk  in  and  make  your  acquaintance,  then 
and  there.  I  heard  you  talking  to  her.  You  admire 
my  daughter:  that's  easy  to  see;  and  she's  not  such 
a  bad  match,  everything  considered." 

"  Who  are  you?  "  demanded  the  young  man  sharply. 

"  I  am  a  man  who's  been  dead  and  buried  these  eight 
een  years,"  replied  the  other.  "  But  I'm  alive  still 
—  very  much  alive;  and  they'll  find  it  out." 

An  ugly  scowl  distorted  the  man's  pale  face.  For 
an  instant  he  stared  past  Wesley  Elliot,  his  eyes  rest 
ing  on  an  irregular  splotch  of  damp  on  the  wall.  Then 
he  shook  himself. 

"I'm  alive,"  he  repeated  slowly.  "And  I'm 
free!" 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  asked  the  minister  for  the  sec 
ond  time. 

For  all  his  superior  height  and  the  sinewy  strength 
of  his  young  shoulders  he  began  to  be  afraid  of 
the  man  who  had  come  to  him  out  of  the  storm. 
There  was  something  strangely  disconcerting,  even 
sinister,  in  the  ceaseless  movements  of  his  pale  hands 
and  the  sudden  lightning  dart  of  his  eyes,  as  they 
shifted  from  the  defaced  wall  to  his  own  perturbed 
face. 

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By  way  of  reply  the  man  burst  into  a  disagreeable 
cackle  of  laughter: 

"  Stopped  in  at  the  old  bank  building  on  my  way," 
he  said.  "  Got  it  all  fixed  up  for  a  reading  room  and 
library.  Quite  a  nice  idea  for  the  villagers.  I'd 
planned  something  of  the  sort,  myself.  Approve  of 
that  sort  of  thing  for  a  rural  population.  Who  — 
was  the  benefactor  in  this  case  —  eh?  Take  it  for 
granted  the  villagers  didn't  do  it  for  themselves. 
The  women  in  charge  there  referred  me  to  you  for 
information.  .  .  .  Don't  be  in  haste,  young  man. 
I'll  answer  your  question  in  good  time.  Who  gave  the 
library,  fixed  up  the  building  and  all  that  ?  Must  have 
cost  something." 

The  minister  sat  down  with  an  assumption  of  ease 
he  did  not  feel,  facing  the  stranger  who  had  already 
possessed  himself  of  the  one  comfortable  chair  in 
the  room. 

"  The  library,"  he  said,  "  was  given  to  the  village 
by  a  Miss  Orr,  a  young  woman  who  has  recently  set 
tled  in  Brookville.  She  has  done  a  good  deal  for  the 
place,  in  various  ways." 

"  What  ways  ?  "  asked  the  stranger,  with  an  air  of 
interest. 

Wesley  Elliot  enumerated  briefly  the  number  of 
benefits:  the  purchase  and  rebuilding  of  the  old  Bolton 
house,  the  construction  of  the  waterworks,  at  present 
under  way,  the  library  and  reading  room,  with  the 
town  hall  above.  "  There  are,"  he  stated,  "  other 
things  which  might  be  mentioned;  such  as  the  im 
provement  of  the  village  green,  repairs  on  the  church, 

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the  beginning  of  a  fund  for  lighting  the  streets,  as 
well  as  innumerable  smaller  benefactions,  involving  in 
dividuals  in  and  around  Brookville." 

The  man  listened  alertly.  When  the  minister 
paused,  he  said : 

"  The  young  woman  you  speak  of  appears  to  have  a 
deep  pocket." 

The  minister  did  not  deny  this.  And  the  man 
spoke  again,  after  a  period  of  frowning  silence : 

"  What  was  her  idea  ?  —  Orr,  you  said  her  name 
was  ?  —  in  doing  all  this  for  Brookville  ?  Rather  re 
markable—eh?  " 

His  tone,  like  his  words,  was  mild  and  common 
place  ;  but  his  face  wore  an  ugly  sneering  look,  which 
enraged  the  minister. 

"  Miss  Orr's  motive  for  thus  benefiting  a  wretched 
community,  well-nigh  ruined  years  ago  by  the  villainy 
of  one  man,  should  be  held  sacred  from  criticism,"  he 
said,  with  heat. 

"  Well,  let  me  tell  you  the  girl  had  a  motive  —  or 
thought  she  had,"  said  the  stranger  unpleasantly. 
"  But  she  had  no  right  to  spend  her  money  that  way. 
You  spoke  just  now  of  the  village  as  being  ruined 
years  ago  by  the  villainy  of  one  man.  That's  a  lie! 
The  village  ruined  the  man.  .  .  .  Never  looked  at  it 
that  way ;  did  you  ?  Andrew  Bolton  had  the  interests 
of  this  place  more  deeply  at  heart  than  any  other 
human  being  ever  did.  He  was  the  one  public-spirited 
man  in  the  place.  ...  Do  you  know  who  built  your 
church,  young  man?  I  see  you  don't.  Well,  An 
drew  Bolton  built  it,  with  mighty  little  help  from  your 

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whining,  hypocritical  church  members.  Every  Torn, 
Dick  and  Harry,  for  miles  about ;  every  old  maid  with 
a  book  to  sell ;  every  cause  —  as  they  call  the  thousand 
and  one  pious  schemes  to  line  their  own  pockets  — 
every  damned  one  of  'em  came  to  Andrew  Bolton  for 
money,  and  he  gave  it  to  them.  He  was  no  hoarding 
skinflint;  not  he.  Better  for  him  if  he  had  been. 
When  luck  went  against  him,  as  it  did  at  last,  these 
precious  villagers  turned  on  him  like  a  pack  of  wolves. 
They  killed  his  wife;  stripped  his  one  child  of  every 
thing  —  even  to  the  bed  she  slept  in ;  and  the  man  him 
self  they  buried  alive  under  a  mountain  of  stone  and 
iron,  where  he  rotted  for  eighteen  years !  " 

The  stranger's  eyes  were  glaring  with  maniacal 
fury ;  he  shook  a  tremulous  yellow  finger  in  the  other's 
face. 

"  Talk  about  ruin !  "  he  shouted.  "  Talk  about  one 
man's  villainy!  This  damnable  village  deserves  to  be 
razed  off  the  face  of  the  earth!  .  .  .  But  I  meant  to 
forgive  them.  I  was  willing  to  call  the  score  even." 

A  nameless  fear  had  gripped  the  younger  man  by 
the  throat. 

"Are  you — ?"  he  began;  but  could  not  speak  the 
words. 

"  My  name,"  said  the  stranger,  with  astonishing 
composure,  in  view  of  his  late  fury,  "  is  Andrew  Bol 
ton  ;  and  the  girl  you  have  been  praising  and  —  court 
ing  —  is  my  daughter.  Now  you  see  what  a  sentimen 
tal  fool  a  woman  can  be.  Well;  I'll  have  it  out  with 
her.  I'll  live  here  in  Brookville  on  equal  terms  with  my 
neighbors.  If  there  was  ever  a  debt  between  us,  it's 

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been  paid  to  the  uttermost  farthing.  I've  paid  it  in 
flesh  and  blood  and  manhood.  Is  there  any  money 
—  any  property  you  can  name  worth  eighteen  years 
of  a  man's  life?  And  such  years —  God!  such 
years!" 

Wesley  Elliot  stared.  At  last  he  understood  the 
girl,  and  as  he  thought  of  her  shrinking  aloofness 
standing  guard  over  her  eager  longing  for  friends  — 
for  affection,  something  hot  and  wet  blurred  his  eyes. 
He  was  scarcely  conscious  that  the  man,  who  had  taken 
to  himself  the  name  with  which  he  had  become  hate 
fully  familiar  during  his  years  in  Brookville,  was  still 
speaking,  till  a  startling  sentence  or  two  aroused  him. 

"  There's  no  reason  under  heaven  why  you  should 
not  marry  her,  if  you  like.  Convict's  daughter? 
Bah !  I  snap  my  fingers  in  their  faces.  My  girl  shall 
be  happy  yet.  I  swear  it!  But  we'll  stop  all  this 
sickly  sentimentality  about  the  money.  We'll — " 

The  minister  held  up  a  warning  hand. 

An  immense  yearning  pity  for  Lydia  had  taken  pos 
session  of  him;  but  for  the  man  who  had  thus  risen 
from  a  dishonorable  grave  to  blight  her  girlhood  he 
felt  not  a  whit. 

"  You'd  better  keep  quiet,"  he  said  sternly. 
"  You'd  far  better  go  away  and  leave  her  to  live  her 
life  alone." 

"You'd  like  that;  wouldn't  you?"  said  Bolton 
dryly. 

He  leaned  forward  and  stared  the  young  man  in  the 
eyes. 

"  But  she  wouldn't  have  it  that  way.  Do  you  know 
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that  girl  of  mine  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  She  expects 
to  make  it  up  to  me.  .  .  .  Imagine  making  up  eighteen 
years  of  hell  with  a  few  pet  names,  a  soft  bed  and  — " 

"Stop!"  cried  Wesley  Elliot,  with  a  gesture  of 
loathing.  "  I  can't  listen  to  you." 

"  But  you'll  marry  her  —  eh  ?  " 

Bolton's  voice  again  dropped  into  a  whining  mono 
tone.  He  even  smiled  deprecatingly. 

"  You'll  excuse  my  ranting  a  bit,  sir.  It's  natural 
after  what  I've  gone  through.  You've  never  been  in  a 
prison,  maybe.  And  you  don't  know  what  it's  like  to 
shake  the  bars  of  a  cell  at  midnight  and  howl  out  of 
sheer  madness  to  be  off  and  away  —  somewhere,  any 
where  !  " 

He  leaned  forward  and  touched  the  minister  on  the 
knee. 

"  And  that  brings  me  back  to  my  idea  in  coming  to 
see  you.  I'm  a  level-headed  man,  still  —  quite  cool 
and  collected,  as  you  see  —  and  I've  been  thinking  the 
situation  over." 

He  drew  his  brows  together  and  stared  hard  at  the 
minister. 

"  I've  a  proposition  to  make  to  you  —  as  man  to 
man.  Can't  talk  reason  to  a  woman;  there's  no  rea 
son  in  a  woman's  make-up  —  just  sentiment  and  af 
fection  and  imagination:  an  impossible  combination, 
when  there  are  hard  realities  to  face.  ...  I  see  you 
don't  agree  with  me;  but  never  mind  that;  just  hear 
what  I  have  to  say." 

But  he  appeared  in  no  haste  to  go  on,  for  all  the 
eagerness  of  his  eyes  and  those  pallid,  restless  hands. 

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The  minister  got  quickly  to  his  feet.  The  situation 
was  momentarily  becoming  intolerable;  he  must  have 
time  to  think  it  over,  he  told  himself,  and  determine 
his  own  relations  to  this  new  and  unwelcome  parish 
ioner. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  he  began ;  "  but  — " 

"None  of  that,"  growled  Bolton.  "Sit  down, 
young  man,  and  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say  to  you. 
We  may  not  have  another  chance  like  this." 

His  assumption  of  a  common  interest  between  them 
was  most  distasteful ;  but  for  all  that  the  minister  re 
sumed  his  chair. 

"  Now,  as  I've  told  you,  my  daughter  appears  un 
willing  to  allow  me  out  of  her  sight.  She  tries  to 
cover  her  watchfulness  under  a  pretense  of  solicitude 
for  my  health.  I'm  not  well,  of  course;  was  knocked 
down  and  beaten  about  the  head  by  one  of  those  devils 
in  the  prison  —  Can't  call  them  men :  no  decent  man 
would  choose  to  earn  his  living  that  way.  But  cosset 
ing  and  coddling  in  a  warm  house  will  never  restore 
me.  I  want  freedom  —  nothing  less.  I  must  be  out 
and  away  when  the  mood  seizes  me  night  or  day.  Her 
affection  stifles  me  at  times.  .  .  .  You  can't  under 
stand  that,  of  course;  you  think  I'm  ungrateful,  no 
doubt;  and  that  I  ought — " 

"  You  appear  to  me,  a  monster  of  selfishness,"  Wes 
ley  Elliot  broke  in.  "  You  ought  to  stop  thinking  of 
yourself  and  think  of  her." 

Bolton's  face  drew  itself  into  the  mirthless  wrinkles 
which  passed  for  a  smile. 

"  I'm  coming  to  that,"  he  said  with  some  eager- 
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ness.  "I  do  think  of  her;  and  that's  why —  Can't 
you  see,  man,  that  eighteen  years  of  prison  don't  grow 
the  domestic  virtues?  A  monster  of  selfishness? 
You're  dead  right.  I'm  all  of  that;  and  I'm  too  old 
to  change.  I  can't  play  the  part  of  a  doting  father. 
I  thought  I  could,  before  I  got  out;  but  I  can't.  Twice 
I've  been  tempted  to  knock  her  down,  when  she  stood 
between  me  and  the  door.  .  .  .  Keep  cool;  I  didn't 
do  it !  But  I'm  afraid  of  myself,  I  tell  you.  I've  got 
to  have  my  liberty.  She  can  have  hers.  .  .  .  Now 
here's  my  proposition:  Lydia's  got  money.  I  don't 
know  how  much.  My  brother-in-law  was  a  close  man. 
Never  even  knew  he  was  rich.  But  she's  got  it  — 
all  but  what  she's  spent  here  trying  to  square  ac 
counts,  as  she  thought.  Do  they  thank  her  for  it? 
Not  much.  I  know  them!  But  see  here,  you  marry 
Lydia,  whenever  you  like;  then  give  me  ten  thousand 
dollars,  and  I'll  clear  out.  I'm  not  a  desirable  father- 
in-law  ;  I  know  that,  as  well  as  you  do.  But  I'll  guar 
antee  to  disappear,  once  my  girl  is  settled.  Is  it  a  bar 
gain?" 

Elliot  shook  his  head. 

"  Your  daughter  doesn't  love  me,"  he  said. 

Bolton  flung  up  his  hand  in  an  impatient  gesture  of 
dissent. 

"  I  stood  in  the  way,"  he  said.  "  She  was  thinking 
of  me,  don't  you  see?  But  if  I  get  out —  Oh,  I 
promise  you  I'll  make  myself  scarce,  once  this  matter 
is  settled." 

"  What  you  propose  is  impossible,  on  the  face  of  it," 
the  minister  said  slowly.  "  I  am  sorry  — " 

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"  Impossible !  Why  impossible  ?  "  shouted  Bolton, 
in  a  sudden  fury.  "  You've  been  courting  my  daugh 
ter —  don't  try  to  crawl  out  of  it,  now  you  know 
what  I  am.  I'll  not  stand  in  the  way,  I  tell  you. 
Why,  the  devil  — " 

He  stopped  short,  his  restless  eyes  roving  over  the 
young  man's  face  and  figure: 

"  Oh,  I  see !  "  he  sneered.  "  I  begin  to  understand : 
'  the  sanctity  of  the  cloth  ' — '  my  sacred  calling ' — 
Yes,  yes!  And  perhaps  my  price  seems  a  bit  high: 
ten  thousand  dollars — " 

Elliot  sprang  from  his  chair  and  stood  over  the 
cringing  figure  of  the  ex-convict. 

"  I  could  strike  you,"  he  said  in  a  smothered  voice ; 
"  but  you  are  an  old  man  and  —  not  responsible. 
You  don't  understand  what  you've  said,  perhaps ;  and 
I'll  not  try  to  make  you  see  it  as  I  do." 

"  I  supposed  you  were  fond  of  my  girl,"  mumbled 
Bolton.  "  I  heard  you  tell  her  — " 

But  the  look  in  the  younger  man's  eyes  stopped  him. 
His  hand  sought  his  heart  in  an  uncertain  gesture. 

"Have  you  any  brandy?"  he  asked  feebly.  "I 
—  I'm  not  well.  .  .  .  No  matter ;  I'll  go  over  to  the 
tavern.  I'll  have  them  take  me  home.  Tired,  after 
all  this;  don't  feel  like  walking." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  minister  from  the  doorstep  of  the  par 
sonage  watched  the  stooped  figure  as  it  sham 
bled  down  the  street.     The  rain  was  still  fall 
ing  in  torrents.     The  thought  crossed  his  mind  that 
the  old  man  might  not  be  able  to  compass  the  two  miles 
or  more  of  country  road.     Then  he  got  into  his  rain 
coat  and  followed. 

"  My  umbrella  isn't  of  the  best,"  he  said,  as  he 
overtook  the  toiling  figure ;  "  but  I  should  have  of 
fered  it." 

Andrew  Bolton  muttered  something  unintelligible, 
as  he  glanced  up  at  the  poor  shelter  the  young  man 
held  over  him.  As  he  did  not  offer  to  avail  himself 
of  it  the  minister  continued  to  walk  at  his  side,  ac 
commodating  his  long  free  stride  to  the  curious  shuf 
fling  gait  of  the  man  who  had  spent  eighteen  years  in 
prison.  And  so  they  passed  the  windowed  fronts  of 
the  village  houses,  peering  out  from  the  dripping  au 
tumnal  foliage  like  so  many  watchful  eyes,  till  the 
hoarse  signal  of  a  motor  car  halted  them,  as  they  were 
about  to  cross  the  street  in  front  of  the  Brookville 
House. 

From  the  open  door  of  the  car  Lydia  Orr's  pale 
face  looked  out. 

"Oh,  father,"  she  said.  "I've  been  looking  for 
you  everywhere! " 

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She  did  not  appear  to  see  the  minister. 

Bolton  stepped  into  the  car  with  a  grunt. 

"  Glad  to  see  the  old  black  Maria,  for  once,"  he 
chuckled.  "  Don't  you  recognize  the  parson,  my  dear  ? 
Nice  fellow  —  the  parson;  been  having  quite  a  visit 
with  him  at  the  manse.  Old  stamping-ground  of 
mine,  you  know.  Always  friendly  with  the  parson." 

Wesley  Elliot  had  swept  the  hat  from  his  head. 
Lydia's  eyes,  blue  and  wide  like  those  of  a  frightened 
child,  met  his  with  an  anguished  question. 

He  bowed  gravely. 

"  I  should  have  brought  him  home  quite  safe,"  he 
told  her.  "  I  intended  ordering  a  carriage." 

The  girl's  lips  shaped  formal  words  of  gratitude. 
Then  the  obedient  humming  of  the  motor  deepened  to 
a  roar  and  the  car  glided  swiftly  away. 

On  the  opposite  corner,  her  bunched  skirts  held  high, 
stood  Miss  Lois  Daggett. 

"  Please  wait  a  minute,  Mr.  Elliot,"  she  called. 
"  I'll  walk  right  along  under  your  umbrella,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

Wesley  Elliot  bowed  and  crossed  the  street.  "  Cer 
tainly,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't  bring  my  own  umbrella 
this  morning,"  said  Miss  Daggett  with  a  keen  glance 
at  Elliot.  "  That  old  man  stopped  in  the  library 
awhile  ago,  and  he  rather  frightened  me.  He  looked 
very  odd  and  talked  so  queer.  Did  he  come  to  the 
parsonage?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Wesley  Elliot.  "  He  came  to  the  par 
sonage?  " 

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"  Did  he  tell  you  who  he  was?  " 

He  had  expected  this  question.  But  how  should  he 
answer  it? 

"  He  told  me  he  had  been  ill  for  a  long  time,"  said 
the  minister  evasively. 

"111!"  repeated  Miss  Daggett  shrilly.  Then  she 
said  one  word :  "  Insane." 

"  People  who  are  insane  are  not  likely  to  mention 
it,"  said  Elliot. 

"  Then  he  is  insane,"  said  Miss  Daggett  with  con 
viction. 

Wesley  looked  at  her  meditatively.  Would  the 
truth,  the  whole  truth,  openly  proclaimed,  be  advisable 
at  this  juncture,  he  wondered.  Lydia  could  not  hope 
to  keep  her  secret  long.  And  there  was  danger  in 
her  attempt.  He  shuddered  as  he  remembered  the 
man's  terrible  words,  "  Twice  I  have  been  tempted  to 
knock  her  down  when  she  stood  between  me  and  the 
door."  Would  it  not  be  bettter  to  abandon  this  pre 
tense  sooner,  rather  than  later?  If  the  village  knew 
the  truth,  would  not  the  people  show  at  least  a  sem 
blance  of  kindness  to  the  man  who  had  expiated  so 
bitterly  the  wrong  he  had  done  them? 

"If  the  man  is  insane,"  Miss  Daggett  said,  " it 
doesn't  seem  right  to  me  to  have  him  at  large." 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do,"  said  Elliot. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  what  you  know  if  the 
man  is  insane." 

"Well,  I  will  tell,"  said  Elliot,  almost  fiercely. 
"  That  man  is  Andrew  Bolton.  He  has  come  home 
after  eighteen  years  of  imprisonment,  which  have  left 
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him  terribly  weak  in  mind  and  body.     Don't  you  think 
people  will  forgive  him  now  ?  " 

A  swift  vindictiveness  flashed  into  the  woman's 
face.  "  I  don't  know,"  said  she. 

"  Why  in  the  world  don't  you  know,  Miss  Dag- 
gett?" 

Then  the  true  reason  for  the  woman's  rancor  was 
disclosed.  It  was  a  reason  as  old  as  the  human  race, 
a  suspicion  as  old  as  the  human  race,  which  she  voiced. 
"  I  have  said  from  the  first,"  she  declared,  "  that  no 
body  would  come  here,  as  that  girl  did,  and  do  so 
much  unless  she  had  a  motive." 

Elliot  stared  at  her.  "  Then  you  hate  that  poor 
child  for  trying  to  make  up  for  the  wrong  her  father 
did;  and  that,  and  not  his  wrongdoing,  influences 
you?" 

Miss  Daggett  stared  at  him.  Her  face  slowly  red 
dened.  "  I  wouldn't  put  it  that  way,"  she  said. 

"What  way  would  you  put  it?"  demanded  Elliot 
mercilessly.  He  was  so  furious  that  he  forgot  to 
hold  the  umbrella  over  Miss  Daggett,  and  the  rain 
drove  in  her  hard,  unhappy  face.  She  did  not  seem 
to  notice.  She  had  led  a  poisoned  life,  in  a  narrow 
rut  of  existence,  and  toxic  emotions  had  become  as  her 
native  atmosphere  of  mind.  Now  she  seemed  to  be 
about  to  breathe  in  a  better  air  of  humanity,  and  she 
choked  under  it. 

"If — "  she  stammered,  "that  was  —  her  reason, 
but  —  I  always  felt  —  that  nobody  ever  did  such 
things  without  —  as  they  used  to  say  —  an  ax  to 
grind." 

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"  This  seems  to  me  a  holy  sort  of  ax,"  said  Elliot 
grimly,  "  and  one  for  which  a  Christian  woman  should 
certainly  not  fling  stones." 

They  had  reached  the  Daggett  house.  The  woman 
stopped  short.  "  You  needn't  think  I'm  going  around 
talking,  any  more  than  you  would,"  she  said,  and  her 
voice  snapped  like  a  whip.  She  went  up  the  steps,  and 
Elliot  went  home,  not  knowing  whether  he  had  accom 
plished  good  or  mischief. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MUCH  to  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's  astonish 
ment,  Wesley  Elliot  ate  no  dinner  that  day. 
It  was  his  habit  to  come  in  from  a  morn 
ing's  work  with  a  healthy  young  appetite  keen-set  for 
her  beef  and  vegetables.  He  passed  directly  up  to 
his  room,  although  she  called  to  him  that  dinner  was 
ready.  Finally  she  went  upstairs  and  knocked 
smartly  on  his  door. 

"  Dinner's  ready,  Mr.  Elliot,"  she  called  out. 

"  I  don't  want  any  today,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Black," 
was  his  reply. 

"You  ain't  sick?" 

"  Oh,  no,  only  not  hungry." 

Mrs.  Black  was  alarmed  when,  later  in  the  after 
noon,  she  heard  the  front  door  slam,  and  beheld  from 
a  front  window  Elliot  striding  down  the  street.  The 
rain  had  ceased  falling,  and  there  were  ragged  holes 
in  the  low-hanging  clouds  which  revealed  glimpses  of 
dazzling  blue. 

"  I  do  hope  he  ain't  coming  down  with  a  fever  or 
something,"  Mrs.  Black  said  aloud.  Then  she  saw 
Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle,  Lois  Daggett,  Mrs.  Fulsom,  and 
the  wife  of  the  postmaster  approaching  her  house 
in  the  opposite  direction.  All  appeared  flushed  and 
agitated,  and  Mrs.  Black  hastened  to  open  her  door, 

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as  she  saw  them  hurrying  up  her  wet  gravel  path. 

"  Is  the  minister  home  ?  "  demanded  Lois  Daggett 
breathlessly.  "  I  want  he  should  come  right  down 
here  and  tell  you  what  he  told  me  this  noon.  Abby 
Daggett  seems  to  think  I  made  it  up  out  of  whole  cloth. 
Don't  deny  it,  Abby.  You  know  very  well  you  said. 
...  I  s'pose  of  course  he's  told  you,  Mrs.  Black." 

"  Mr.  Elliot  has  gone  out,"  said  Mrs.  Black  rather 
coldly. 

"  Where's  he  gone  ?  "  demanded  Lois. 

Mrs.  Black  was  being  devoured  with  curiosity;  still 
she  felt  vaguely  repelled. 

"  Ladies,"  she  said,  her  air  of  reserve  deepening. 
"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about,  but  Mr. 
Elliot  didn't  eat  any  dinner,  and  he  is  either  sick  or 
troubled  in  his  mind." 

"  There  !  Now  you  c'n  all  see  from  that  ! "  tri 
umphed  Lois  Daggett. 

Mrs.  Deacon  Whittle  and  Mrs.  Judge  Fulsom  gazed 
incredulously  at  Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  then  at  one 
another. 

Abby  Daggett,  the  soft  round  of  her  beautiful,  kind 
face  flushed  and  tremulous,  murmured :  "  Poor  man 
—  poor  man !  " 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  with  a  masterly  gesture  headed 
the  women  toward  her  parlor,  where  a  fire  was  burn 
ing  in  a  splendidly  nickeled  stove  full  five  feet  high. 

"Now,"  said  she;  "we'll  talk  this  over,  whatever 
it  is." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  MILE   from   town,   where  the  angry   wind 
could    be   seen   at   work   tearing   the  purple 
rainclouds    into    rags    and    tatters,    through 
which  the  hidden  sun  shot  long  rays  of  pale  splendor, 
Wesley  Elliot  was  walking  rapidly,  his  head  bent,  his 
eyes  fixed  and  absent. 

He  had  just  emerged  from  one  of  those  crucial  ex 
periences  of  life,  which,  more  than  the  turning  of  the 
earth  upon  its  axis,  serve  to  age  a  human  being.  For 
perhaps  the  first  time  in  the  brief  span  of  his  remem 
brance,  he  had  scrutinized  himself  in  the  pitiless  light 
of  an  intelligence  higher  than  his  own  everyday  con 
sciousness;  and  the  sight  of  that  meaner  self,  striving 
to  run  to  cover,  had  not  been  pleasant.  Just  why  his 
late  interview  with  Andrew  Bolton  should  have  pre 
cipitated  this  event,  he  could  not  possibly  have  ex 
plained  to  any  one  —  and  least  of  all  to  himself.  He 
had  begun,  logically  enough,  with  an  illuminating  re 
view  of  the  motives  which  led  him  into  the  ministry; 
they  were  a  sorry  lot,  on  the  whole ;  but  his  subsequent 
ambitions  appeared  even  worse.  For  the  first  time, 
he  perceived  his  own  consummate  selfishness  set  over 
against  the  shining  renunciations  of  his  mother. 
Then,  step  by  step,  he  followed  his  career  in  Brook- 
ville:  his  smug  satisfaction  in  his  own  good  looks;  his 
shallow  pride  and  vanity  over  the  vapid  insincerities 

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he  had  perpetrated  Sunday  after  Sunday  in  the  shabby 
pulpit  of  the  Brookville  church;  his  Pharisaical  rela 
tions  with  his  people;  his  utter  misunderstanding  of 
their  needs.  All  this  proved  poignant  enough  to 
force  the  big  drops  to  his  forehead.  .  .  .  There  were 
other  aspects  of  himself  at  which  he  scarcely  dared 
look  in  his  utter  abasement  of  spirit ;  those  dark  hiero 
glyphics  of  the  beast-self  which  appear  on  the  whitest 
soul.  He  had  supposed  himself  pure  and  saintly  be 
cause,  forsooth,  he  had  concealed  the  arena  of  these 
primal  passions  beneath  the  surface  of  his  outward 
life,  chaining  them  there  like  leashed  tigers  in  the  dark. 
.  .  .  Two  faces  of  women  appeared  to  be  looking  on, 
while  he  strove  to  unravel  the  snarl  of  his  self-knowl 
edge.  Lydia's  unworldly  face,  wearing  a  faint  nim 
bus  of  unimagined  self-immolation,  and  Fanny's  — 
full  of  love  and  solicitude,  the  face  which  he  had  al 
most  determined  to  forget. 

He  was  going  to  Lydia.  Every  newly  awakened 
instinct  of  his  manhood  bade  him  go. 

She  came  to  him  at  once,  and  without  pretense  of 
concealment  began  to  speak  of  her  father.  She  trem 
bled  a  little  as  she  asked : 

"  He  told  you  who  he  was?  " 

Without  waiting  for  his  answer  she  gravely  cor 
rected  herself. 

"  I  should  have  said,  who  we  are/' 

She  smiled  a  faint  apology : 

"  I  have  always  been  called  Lydia  Orr ;  it  was  my 
mother's  name.  I  was  adopted  into  my  uncle's  family, 
after  father  —  went  to  prison." 

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Her  blue  eyes  met  his  pitying  gaze  without  eva 
sion. 

"  I  am  glad  you  know,"  she  said.  "  I  think  I  shall 
be  glad  —  to  have  every  one  know.  I  meant  to  tell 
them  all,  at  first.  But  when  I  found — " 

"  I  know,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Then  because  as  yet  he  had  said  nothing  to  com 
fort  her,  or  himself;  and  because  every  word  that 
came  bubbling  to  the  surface  appeared  banal  and  in 
adequate,  he  continued  silent,  gazing  at  her  and  mar 
veling  at  her  perfect  serenity  —  her  absolute  poise. 

"  It  will  be  a  relief,"  she  sighed,  "  when  every  one 
knows.  He  dislikes  to  be  watched.  I  have  been 
afraid  —  I  could  not  bear  to  have  him  know  how  they 
hate  him." 

"  Perhaps;"  he  forced  himself  to  say,  "  they  will 
not  hate  him,  when  they  know  how  you  —  Lydia, 
you  are  wonderful !  " 

She  looked  up  startled  and  put  out  her  hand  as  if 
to  prevent  him  from  speaking  further. 

But  the  words  came  in  a  torrent  now : 

"How  you  must  despise  me!  I  despise  myself. 
I  am  not  worthy,  Lydia;  but  if  you  can  care — " 

"Stop!"  she  said  softly,  as  if  she  would  lay  the 
compelling  finger  of  silence  upon  his  lips.  "  I  told  you 
I  was  not  like  other  women.  Can't  you  see — ?  " 

"  You  must  marry  me,"  he  urged,  in  a  veritable 
passion  of  self-giving.  "I  want  to  help  you!  You 
will  let  me,  Lydia?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  You  could  not  help  me ;  I  am  better  alone." 
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She  looked  at  him,  the  glimmer  of  a  smile  dawning 
in  her  eyes. 

"  You  do  not  love  me,"  she  said;  "  nor  I  you.  You 
are  my  friend.  You  will  remain  my  friend,  I  hope  ?  " 

She  arose  and  held  out  her  hand.  He  took  it  with 
out  a  word.  And  so  they  stood  for  a  moment;  each 
knowing  without  need  of  speech  what  the  other  was 
thinking ;  the  man  sorry  and  ashamed  because  he  could 
not  deny  the  truth  of  her  words;  and  she  compas 
sionately  willing  to  draw  the  veil  of  a  soothing  silence 
over  his  hurts. 

"  I  ought  to  tell  you  — "  he  began. 

But  she  shook  her  head: 

"  No  need  to  tell  me  anything." 

"  You  mean,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  that  you  saw 
through  my  shallow  pretenses  all  the  while.  I  know 
now  how  you  must  have  despised  me." 

"  Is  it  nothing  that  you  have  asked  me  —  a  con 
vict's  daughter  —  to  be  your  wife?  "  she  asked.  "  Do 
you  think  I  don't  know  that  some  men  would  have 
thanked  heaven  for  their  escape  and  never  spoken  to 
me  again?  I  can't  tell  you  how  it  has  helped  to 
hearten  me  for  what  must  come.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  that  you  offered  me  your  self  —  your  career ;  it 
would  have  cost  you  that.  I  want  you  to  know  how 
much  I  —  appreciate  what  you  have  done,  in  offering 
me  the  shelter  of  an  honest  name." 

He  would  have  uttered  some  unavailing  words  of 
protest,  but  she  checked  him. 

"We  shall  both  be  glad  of  this,  some  day,"  she 
predicted  gravely.  ...  "  There  is  one  thing  you  can 

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do  for  me,"  she  added :  "  Tell  them.  It  will  be  best 
for  both  of  us,  now." 

It  was  already  done,  he  said,  explaining  his  motives 
in  short,  disjointed  sentences. 

Then  with  a  feeling  of  relief  which  he  strove  to 
put  down,  but  which  nevertheless  persisted  in  making 
itself  felt  in  a  curious  lightening  of  his  spirits,  he  was 
again  walking  rapidly  and  without  thought  of  his  des 
tination.  Somber  bars  of  crimson  and  purple  crossed 
the  west,  and  behind  them,  flaming  up  toward  the 
zenith  in  a  passionate  splendor  of  light,  streamed  long, 
golden  rays  from  out  the  heart  of  that  glory  upon 
which  no  human  eye  may  look.  The  angry  wind  had 
fallen  to  quiet,  and  higher  up,  floating  in  a  sea  of 
purest  violet,  those  despised  and  flouted  rags  of  clouds 
were  seen,  magically  changed  to  rose  and  silver. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

FANNY  DODGE  sat  by  the  pleasant  west 
window  of  the  kitchen,  engaged  in  reading 
those  aimless  shreds  of  local  information 
which  usually  make  up  the  outside  pages  of  the  weekly 
newspaper.  She  could  not  possibly  feel  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  fact  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  M.  Snider 
of  West  Schofield  were  entertaining  a  daughter,  whose 
net  weight  was  reported  to  be  nine  and  three  quarters 
pounds;  or  that  Miss  Elizabeth  Wardwell  of  Elting- 
ville  had  just  issued  beautifully  engraved  invitations  to 
her  wedding,  which  was  to  take  place  on  the  seven 
teenth  day  of  October  —  yet  she  went  on  reading. 
Everybody  read  the  paper.  Sometimes  they  talked 
about  what  they  read.  Anyway,  her  work  was  over 
for  the  day  —  all  except  tea,  which  was  negligible ;  so 
she  went  on,  somewhat  drearily  suppressing  a  yawn, 
to  a  description  of  the  new  water-works,  which  were 
being  speedily  brought  to  completion  in  "  our  neigh 
boring  enterprising  town  of  Brookville." 

Fanny  already  knew  all  there  was  to  tell  concerning 
the  concrete  reservoir  on  the  mountain,  the  big  con 
duit  leading  to  the  village  and  the  smaller  pipes  laid 
wherever  there  were  householders  desiring  water. 
These  were  surprisingly  few,  considering  the  fact  that 
there  would  be  no  annual  charge  for  the  water,  beyond 

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the  insignificant  sum  required  for  its  up-keep.  People 
said  their  wells  were  good  enough  for  them ;  and  that 
spring  water  wasn't  as  good  as  cistern  water,  when  it 
came  to  washing.  Some  were  of  the  opinion  that 
Lydia  Orr  was  in  a  fool's  hurry  to  get  rid  of  her 
money ;  others  that  she  couldn't  stand  it  to  be  out  of 
the  limelight ;  and  still  other  sagacious  individuals  felt 
confident  there  was  something  in  it  for  "  that  girl." 
Fanny  had  heard  these  various  views  of  Miss  Orr's 
conduct.  She  was  still  striving  with  indifferent  suc 
cess  to  rise  above  her  jealousy,  and  to  this  end  she 
never  failed  to  champion  Lydia's  cause  against  all 
comers.  Curiously  enough,  this  course  had  finally 
brought  her  tranquillity  of  a  sort  and  an  utter  unpro- 
testing  acquiescence. 

Mrs.  Whittle  had  been  overheard  saying  to  Mrs. 
Fulsom  that  she  guessed,  after  all,  Fanny  Dodge  didn't 
care  so  much  about  the  minister. 

Fanny,  deep  once  more  in  the  absorbing  considera 
tion  of  the  question  which  had  once  been  too  poignant 
to  consider  calmly,  and  the  answer  to  which  she  was 
never  to  know,  permitted  the  paper  to  slide  off  her  knee 
to  the  floor:  Why  had  Wesley  Elliot  so  suddenly 
deserted  her?  Surely,  he  could  not  have  fallen  in  love 
with  another  woman ;  she  was  sure  he  had  been  in  love 
with  her.  However,  to  kiss  and  forget  might  be  one 
of  the  inscrutable  ways  of  men.  She  was  really  afraid 
it  was.  But  Wesley  Elliot  had  never  kissed  her ;  had 
never  even  held  her  hand  for  more  than  a  minute  at  a 
time.  But  those  minutes  loomed  large  in  retrospect. 

The  clock  struck  five  and  Fanny,  roused  from  her 
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reverie  by  the  sudden  sound,  glanced  out  of  the  win 
dow.  At  the  gate  she  saw  Elliot.  He  stood  there, 
gazing  at  the  house  as  if  uncertain  whether  to  enter 
or  not.  Fanny  put  up  a  tremulous  hand  to  her  hair, 
which  was  pinned  fast  in  its  accustomed  crisp  coils; 
then  she  glanced  down  at  her  blue  gown.  .  .  .  Yes ;  he 
was  coming  in!  The  bell  hanging  over  the  passage 
door  jangled  shrilly.  Fanny  stood  stock-still  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  staring  at  it.  There  was  no  fire  in 
the  parlor.  She  would  be  forced  to  bring  him  out  to 
the  kitchen.  She  thought  of  the  wide,  luxuriously 
furnished  rooms  of  Bolton  house  and  unconsciously 
her  face  hardened.  She  might  pretend  she  did  not 
hear  the  bell.  She  might  allow  him  to  go  away,  think 
ing  none  of  the  family  were  at  home.  She  pictured 
him,  standing  there  on  the  doorstep  facing  the  closed 
door;  and  a  perverse  spirit  held  her  silent,  while  the 
clock  ticked  resoundingly.  Then  all  at  once  with  a 
smothered  cry  she  hurried  through  the  hall,  letting  the 
door  fall  to  behind  her  with  a  loud  slam. 

He  was  waiting  patiently  on  the  doorstep,  as  she 
had  pictured  him;  and  before  a  single  word  had  passed 
between  them  she  knew  that  the  stone  had  been  rolled 
away.  His  eyes  met  hers,  not  indeed  with  the  old 
look,  but  with  another,  incomprehensible,  yet  wonder 
fully  soul-satisfying. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  about  it,  before  it  came  to  you 
from  the  outside,"  he  said,  when  they  had  settled 
themselves  in  the  warm,  silent  kitchen. 

His  words  startled  Fanny.  Was  he  going  to  tell 
hei;  of  his  approaching  marriage  to  Lydia?  Her 

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color  faded,  and  a  look  of  almost  piteous  resignation 
drooped  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  strove  to  col 
lect  her  scattered  wits,  to  frame  words  of  congratula 
tion  with  which  to  meet  the  dreaded  avowal. 

He  appeared  in  no  hurry  to  begin ;  but  bent  forward, 
his  eyes  upon  her  changing  face. 

"  Perhaps  you  know,  already,"  he  reflected.  "  She 
may  have  told  your  brother." 

"  Are  you  speaking  of  Miss  Orr?  " 

Her  voice  sounded  strange  in  her  own  ears. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly.  "  But  I  suppose  one  should 
give  her  her  rightful  name,  from  now  on." 

"I  —  I  hadn't  heard,"  said  Fanny,  feeling  her  hard- 
won  courage  slipping  from  her.  "  Jim  didn't  tell  me. 
But  of  course  I  am  not  —  surprised." 

He  evidently  experienced  something  of  the  emotion 
she  had  just  denied. 

"  No  one  seemed  to  have  guessed  it,"  he  said.  "  But 
now  everything  is  plain.  Poor  girl !  " 

He  fell  into  a  fit  of  musing,  which  he  finally  broke 
to  say: 

"  I  thought  you  would  go  to  see  her.  She  sorely 
needs  friends." 

"  She  has  —  you,"  said  Fanny  in  a  smothered 
voice. 

For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  withhold  that  one 
lightning  flash  out  of  her  enveloping  cloud. 

He  disclaimed  her  words  with  a  swift  gesture. 

"  I'm  not  worthy  to  claim  her  friendship,  nor  yours," 
he  said  humbly ;  "  but  I  hope  you  —  sometime  you 
may  be  able  to  forgive  me,  Fanny." 

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"  I  don't  think  I  understand  what  you  have  come 
to  tell  me,"  she  said  with  difficulty. 

"  The  village  is  ringing  with  the  news.  She 
wanted  every  one  to  know;  her  father  has  come 
home." 

"Her  father!" 

"  Ah,  you  didn't  guess,  after  all.  I  think  we  were 
all  blind.  Andrew  Bolton  has  come  back  to  Brook- 
ville,  a  miserable,  broken  man." 

"  But  you  said  —  her  father.  Do  you  mean  that 
Lydia  Orr  — " 

"  It  wasn't  a  deliberate  deception  on  her  part,"  he 
interrupted  quickly.  "  She  has  always  been  known 
as  Lydia  Orr.  It  was  her  mother's  name." 

Fanny  despised  herself  for  the  unreasoning  tumult 
of  joy  which  surged  up  within  her.  He  could  not 
possibly  marry  Andrew  Bolton's  daughter ! 

He  was  watching  her  closely. 

"  I  thought  perhaps,  if  she  consented,  I  would  marry 
Lydia  Orr,"  he  forced  himself  to  tell  her.  "  I  want 
you  to  know  this  from  me,  now.  I  decided  that  her 
money  and  her  position  would  help  me.  ...  I  ad 
mired  her;  I  even  thought  at  one  time  I  —  loved  her. 
I  tried  to  love  her.  ...  I  am  not  quite  so  base  as  to 
marry  without  love.  .  .  .  But  she  knew.  She  tried 
to  save  me.  .  .  .  Then  her  father  —  that  wretched, 
ruined  man  came  to  me.  He  told  me  everything.  .  .  . 
Fanny,  that  girl  is  a  saint !  " 

His  eyes  were  inscrutable  under  their  somber  brows. 
The  girl  sitting  stiffly  erect,  every  particle  of  color 
drained  from  her  young  face,  watched  him  with  some- 

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thing  like  terror.  Why  was  he  telling  her  this?  — 
Why?  Why? 

His  next  words  answered  her: 

"  I  can  conceive  of  no  worse  punishment  than  hav 
ing  you  think  ill  of  me."  .  .  .  And  after  a  pause :  "  I 
deserve  everything  you  may  be  telling  yourself." 

But  coherent  thought  had  become  impossible  for 
Fanny. 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  her?  "  she  asked  clearly. 

"  Oh,  I  asked  her.  I  knew  I  had  been  a  cad  to  both 
of  you.  I  asked  her  all  right." 

Fanny's  fingers,  locked  rigidly  in  her  lap,  did  not 
quiver.  Her  blue  eyes  were  wide  and  strange,  but  she 
tried  to  smile. 

His  voice,  harsh  and  hesitating,  went  on :  "  She  re 
fused  me,  of  course.  She  had  known  all  along  what 
I  was.  She  said  she  did  not  love  me;  that  I  did  not 
love  her  —  which  was  God's  truth.  I  wanted  to 
atone.  You  see  that,  don't  you  ?  " 

He  looked  at  Fanny  and  started. 

"  My  God,  Fanny!  "  he  cried.  "  I  have  made  you 
suffer  too !  " 

"  Never  mind  me." 

"  Fanny,  can  you  love  me  and  be  my  wife  after  all 
this?" 

"  I  am  a  woman,"  said  Fanny.  Her  eyes  blazed 
angrily  at  him.  Then  she  laughed  and  put  up  her 
mouth  to  be  kissed. 

"  Men  will  make  fools  of  women  till  the  Day  of 
Judgment,"  said  she,  and  laughed  again. 

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WHEN  the  afternoon  mail  came  in  that  day, 
Mr.  Henry  Daggett  retired  behind  his 
official  barrier  according  to  his  wont,  leav 
ing  the  store  in  charge  of  Joe  Whittle,  the  Deacon's 
son.  It  had  been  diligently  pointed  out  to  Joe  by  his 
thrifty  parents  that  all  rich  men  began  life  by  sweep 
ing  out  stores  and  other  menial  tasks,  and  for  some 
time  Joe  had  been  working  for  Mr.  Daggett  with 
doubtful  alacrity. 

Joe  liked  the  store.  There  was  a  large  stock  of 
candy,  dried  fruit,  crackers  and  pickles;  Joe  was  a 
hungry  boy,  and  Mr.  Daggett  had  told  him  he  could  eat 
what  he  wished.  He  was  an  easy-going  man  with  no 
children  of  his  own,  and  he  took  great  delight  in  pam 
pering  the  Deacon's  son.  "  I  told  him  he  could  eat 
candy  and  things,  and  he  looked  tickled  to  death,"  he 
told  his  wife. 

"  He'll  get  his  stomach  upset,"  objected  Mrs. 
Daggett. 

"  He  can't  eat  the  whole  stock,"  said  Daggett,  "  and 
upsetting  a  boy's  stomach  is  not  much  of  an  upset 
anyway.  It  don't  take  long  to  right  it." 

Once  in  a  while  Daggett  would  suggest  to  Joe  that 
if  he  were  in  his  place  he  wouldn't  eat  too  much  of 
that  green  candy.  He  supposed  it  was  pure ;  he  didn't 
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mean  to  sell  any  but  pure  candy  if  he  knew  it,  but  it 
might  be  just  as  well  for  him  to  go  slow.  Generally  he 
took  a  paternal  delight  in  watching  the  growing  boy 
eat  his  stock  in  trade. 

That  afternoon  Joe  was  working  on  a  species  of 
hard  sweet  which  distended  his  cheeks,  and  nearly 
deprived  him  temporarily  of  the  power  of  speech, 
while  the  people  seeking  their  mail  came  in.  There 
was  never  much  custom  while  mail-sorting  was  going 
on,  and  Joe  sucked  blissfully. 

Then  Jim  Dodge  entered  and  spoke  to  him. 
"  Hullo,  Joe,"  he  said. 

Joe  nodded,  speechless. 

Jim  seated  himself  on  a  stool,  and  lit  his  pipe. 

Joe  eyed  him.  Jim  was  a  sort  of  hero  to  him  on 
account  of  his  hunting  fame.  As  soon  as  he  could 
control  his  tongue,  he  addressed  him: 

"  Heard  the  news?  "  said  he,  trying  to  speak  like  a 
man. 

"What  news?" 

"  Old  Andrew  Bolton's  got  out  of  prison  and  come 
back.  He's  crazy,  too." 

"  How  did  you  get  hold  of  such  nonsense?  " 

"  Heard  the  women  talking." 

Jim  pondered  a  moment.  Then  he  said  "  Damn," 
and  Joe  admired  him  as  never  before.  When  Jim 
had  gone  out,  directly,  Joe  shook  his  fist  at  a  sugar 
barrel,  and  said  "  Damn,"  in  a  whisper. 

Jim  in  the  meantime  was  hurrying  along  the  road 
to  the  Bolton  house.  He  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
must  see  Lydia.  He  must  know  if  she  had  au- 

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thorized  the  revelation  that  had  evidently  been  made, 
and  if  so,  through  whom.  He  suspected  the  min 
ister,  and  was  hot  with  jealousy.  His  own  friendship 
with  Lydia  seemed  to  have  suffered  a  blight  after 
that  one  confidential  talk  of  theirs,  in  which  she  had 
afforded  him  a  glimpse  of  her  sorrowful  past.  She 
had  not  alluded  to  the  subject  a  second  time;  and, 
somehow,  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  behind  the  de 
fenses  of  her  smiling  cheerfulness.  Always  she  was 
with  her  father,  it  seemed ;  and  the  old  man,  garrulous 
enough  when  alone,  was  invariably  silent  and  moody 
in  his  daughter's  company.  One  might  almost  have 
said  he  hated  her,  from  the  sneering  impatient  looks 
he  cast  at  her  from  time  to  time.  As  for  Lydia,  she 
was  all  love  and  brooding  tenderness  for  the  man 
who  had  suffered  so  long  and  terribly. 

"  He'll  be  better  after  a  while/'  she  constantly  ex 
cused  him.  "  He  needs  peace  and  quiet  and  home  to 
restore  him  to  himself." 

"  You  want  to  look  out  for  him,"  Jim  had  ventured 
to  warn  the  girl,  when  the  two  were  alone  together 
for  a  moment. 

"Do  you  mean  father?"  Lydia  asked.  "What 
else  should  I  do?  It  is  all  I  live  for  —  just  to  look 
out  for  father." 

Had  she  been  a  martyr  bound  to  the  stake,  the  fag 
gots  piled  about  her  slim  body,  her  face  might  have 
worn  just  that  expression  of  high  resignation  and 
contempt  for  danger  and  suffering. 

The  young  man  walked  slowly  on.  He  wanted 
time  to  think.  Besides  —  he  glanced  down  with  a 

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quick  frown  of  annoyance  at  his  mud-splashed  cloth 
ing  —  he  certainly  cut  a  queer  figure  for  a  call. 

Some  one  was  standing  on  the  doorstep  talking  to 
Fanny,  as  he  approached  his  own  home.  Another 
instant  and  he  had  recognized  Wesley  Elliot.  He 
stopped  behind  a  clump  of  low-growing  trees,  and 
watched.  Fanny,  framed  in  the  dark  doorway, 
glowed  like  a  rose.  Jim  saw  her  bend  forward,  smil 
ing;  saw  the  minister  take  both  her  hands  in  his  and 
kiss  them;  saw  Fanny  glance  quickly  up  and  down 
the  empty  road,  as  if  apprehensive  of  a  chance  pass 
erby.  Then  the  minister,  his  handsome  head  bared 
to  the  cold  wind,  waved  her  farewell  and  started  at  a 
brisk  pace  down  the  road. 

Jim  waited  till  the  door  had  closed  lingeringly  on 
the  girl;  then  he  stepped  forth  from  his  concealment 
and  waited. 

Abreast  of  him  Elliot  stopped;  aware,  it  would 
seem,  of  the  menace  in  the  other  man's  eyes. 

"  You  wished  to  speak  with  me?  "  he  began. 

"  Speak  with  you  —  no !     I  want  to  kick  you." 

The  minister  eyed  him  indignantly.  "  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"  You  sneaking  hypocrite !  do  you  think  I  don't 
know  what  has  happened?  You  threw  Fanny  down, 
when  Lydia  Orr  came  to  town ;  you  thought  my  sister 
wasn't  good  enough  —  nor  rich  enough  for  a  hand 
some,  eloquent  clergyman  like  you.  But  when  you 
learned  her  father  was  a  convict  — " 

"  Stop!  "  cried  Elliot.     "  You  don't  understand!  " 

"I  don't?  Well,  I  guess  I  come  pretty  near  it. 
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And  not  content  with  telling  Lydia's  pitiful  secret  to 
all  the  busybodies  in  town,  you  come  to  Fanny  with 
your  smug  explanations.  My  God!  I  could  kill 
you!" 

The  minister's  face  had  hardened  during  this 
speech. 

"  See  here,"  he  said.     "  You  are  going  too  far." 

"  Do  you  deny  that  you've  made  love  to  both  my 
sister  and  Miss  Orr?  "  demanded  Jim. 

Physically  the  minister  was  no  coward.  He  meas 
ured  the  slight,  wiry  figure  of  his  wrathful  opponent 
with  a  coolly  appraising  eye. 

"  My  relations  with  Miss  Orr  are  none  of  your 
business,"  he  reminded  Jim.  "  As  for  your  sister  — " 

"  Damn  you !  "  cried  Jim. 

The  minister  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"If  you'll  listen  to  reason,"  he  suggested  pacifically. 

"  I  saw  you  kiss  my  sister's  hand !  I  tell  you  I'll 
not  have  you  hanging  around  the  place,  after  what's 
gone.  You  may  as  well  understand  it." 

Wesley  Elliot  reflected  briefly. 

"  There's  one  thing  you  ought  to  know,"  he  said, 
controlling  his  desire  to  knock  Fanny's  brother  into 
the  bushes. 

A  scornful  gesture  bade  him  to  proceed. 

"  Andrew  Bolton  came  to  see  me  in  the  parsonage 
this  morning.  He  is  a  ruined  man,  in  every  sense  of 
the  word.  He  will  never  be  otherwise." 

Jim  Dodge  thrust  both  hands  deep  in  his  trousers' 
pockets,  his  eyes  fixed  and  frowning. 

"Well,"  he  murmured;  "what  of  that?" 
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"  That  being  the  case,  all  we  can  do  is  to  make  the 
best  of  things  —  for  her.  .  .  .  She  requested  me  to 
make  the  facts  known  in  the  village.  They  would 
have  found  out  everything  from  the  man  himself.  He 
is  —  perhaps  you  are  aware  that  Bolton  bitterly  re 
sents  his  daughter's  interference.  She  would  have 
been  glad  to  spare  him  the  pain  of  publicity. " 

The  minister's  tone  was  calm,  even  judicial ;  and 
Jim  Dodge  suddenly  experienced  a  certain  flat  humili 
ation  of  spirit. 

"  I  didn't  know  she  asked  you  to  tell,"  he  muttered, 
kicking  a  pebble  out  of  the  way.  "  That  puts  a  dif 
ferent  face  on  it." 

He  eyed  the  minister  steadily. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  can  make  you  out,  Elliot,"  he 
said  at  last.  "  You  can't  blame  me  for  thinking  — • 
Why  did  you  come  here  this  afternoon,  anyway?" 

A  sudden  belated  glimmer  of  comprehension  dawned 
upon  the  minister. 

"  Are  you  in  love  with  Miss  Orr?  "  he  parried. 

"  None  of  your  damned  business !  " 

"  I  was  hoping  you  were,"  the  minister  said  quietly. 
"  She  needs  a  friend  —  one  who  will  stand  close,  just 
now." 

"  Do  you  mean — ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Fanny." 

"  The  devil  you  are !  " 

The  minister  smiled  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  We  may  as  well  be  friends,  Jim,"  he  said  coolly, 
"  seeing  we're  to  be  brothers." 

The  young  man  turned  on  his  heel. 
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"  I'll  have  to  think  that  proposition  over,"  he 
growled.  "  It's  a  bit  too  sudden  —  for  me." 

Without  another  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  min 
ister  he  marched  toward  the  house.  Fanny  was  laying 
the  table,  a  radiant  color  in  her  face.  A  single  glance 
told  her  brother  that  she  was  happy.  He  threw  him 
self  into  a  chair  by  the  window. 

"  Where's  mother?  "  he  asked  presently,  pretending 
to  ignore  the  excited  flutter  of  the  girl's  hands  as  she 
set  a  plate  of  bread  on  the  table. 

"  She  hasn't  come  back  from  the  village  yet,"  war 
bled  Fanny.  She  couldn't  keep  the  joy  in  her  soul 
from  singing. 

"  Guess  I'll  eat  my  supper  and  get  out.  I  don't 
want  to  hear  a  word  of  gossip." 

Fanny  glanced  up,  faltered,  then  ran  around  the 
table  and  threw  her  arms  about  Jim's  neck. 

"  Oh,  Jim!  "  she  breathed,  "  you've  seen  him!  " 

"Worse  luck!"  grumbled  Jim. 

He  held  his  sister  off  at  arm's  length  and  gazed  at 
her  fixedly. 

"  What  you  see  in  that  chap,"  he  murmured. 
«  Well  — " 

"  Oh,  Jim,  he's  wonderful ! "  cried  Fanny,  half 
laughing,  half  crying,  and  altogether  lovely. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  so.  But  after  the  way  he's 
treated  you  —  By  George,  Fan !  I  can't  see  — " 

Fanny  drew  herself  up  proudly. 

"Of  course  I  haven't  talked  much  about  it,  Jim," 
she  said,  with  dignity;  "  but  Wesley  and  I  had  a  —  a 
little  misunderstanding.  It's  all  explained  away  now." 

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And  to  this  meager  explanation  she  stubbornly  ad 
hered,  through  subsequent  soul-searching  conversa 
tions  with  her  mother,  and  during  the  years  of  married 
life  that  followed.  In  time  she  came  to  believe  it, 
herself ;  and  the  "  little  misunderstanding  with  Wes 
ley  "  and  its  romantic  denouement  became  a  well-re 
membered  milestone,  wreathed  with  sentiment. 

But  poised  triumphant  on  this  pinnacle  of  joy,  she 
yet  had  time  to  think  of  another  than  herself. 

"  Jim,"  said  she,  a  touch  of  matronly  authority 
already  apparent  in  her  manner.  "  I've  wanted  for  a 
long  time  to  talk  to  you  seriously  about  Ellen." 

Jim  stared. 

"  About  Ellen?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Jim,  she's  awfully  fond  of  you.  I  think  you've 
treated  her  cruelly." 

"  Look  here,  Fan,"  said  Jim,  "  don't  you  worry 
yourself  about  Ellen  Dix.  She's  not  in  love  with  me, 
and  never  was." 

Having  thus  spoken,  Jim  would  not  say  another 
word.  He  gulped  down  his  supper  and  was  off.  He 
kissed  Fanny  when  he  went. 

"  Hope  you'll  be  happy,  and  all  that,"  he  told  her 
rather  awkwardly.  Fanny  looked  after  him  swinging 
down  the  road.  "  I  guess  it's  all  right  between  him 
and  Ellen,"  she  thought. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

JIM  had  no  definite  plan  as  he  tramped  down  the 
road  in  the  falling  darkness.  He  felt  uncertain 
and  miserable  as  he  speculated  with  regard  to 
Lydia.  She  could  not  guess  at  half  the  unkind  things 
people  must  be  saying ;  but  she  would  ask  for  the  bread 
of  sympathy  and  they  would  give  her  a  stone.  He 
"wished  he  might  carry  her  away,  shielding  her  and 
comforting  her  against  the  storm.  He  knew  he  would 
willingly  give  his  life  to  make  her  happier.  Of  course 
she  did  not  care  for  him.  How  could  she  ?  Who  was 
he  —  Jim  Dodge  —  to  aspire  to  a  girl  like  Lydia? 

The  wind  had  risen  again  and  was  driving  dark 
masses  of  cloud  across  the  sky;  in  the  west  a  sullen 
red  flared  up  from  behind  the  hills,  touching  the  lower 
edges  of  the  vaporous  mountains  with  purple.  In  a 
small,  clear  space  above  the  red  hung  the  silver  sickle 
of  the  new  moon,  and  near  it  shone  a  single  star.  .  .  . 
Lydia  was  like  that  star,  he  told  himself  —  as  wonder 
ful,  as  remote. 

There  were  lights  in  the  windows  of  Bolton  House. 
Jim  stopped  and  gazed  at  the  yellow  squares,  some 
thing  big  and  powerful  rising  within  him.  Then, 
yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse,  he  approached  and  looked 
in.  In  a  great  armchair  before  the  blazing  hearth 
sat,  or  rather  crouched,  Andrew  Bolton.  He  was 
wearing  a  smoking-jacket  of  crimson  velvet  and  a  pipe 

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hung  from  his  nerveless  fingers.  Only  the  man's  eyes 
appeared  alive;  they  were  fixed  upon  Lydia  at  the 
paino.  She  was  playing  some  light  tuneful  melody, 
with  a  superabundance  of  trills  and  runs.  Jim  did 
not  know  Lydia  played;  and  the  knowledge  of  this 
trivial  accomplishment  seemed  to  put  her  still  further 
beyond  his  reach.  He  did  not  know,  either,  that  she  had 
acquired  her  somewhat  indifferent  skill  after  long 
years  of  dull  practice,  and  for  the  single  purpose  of 
diverting  the  man,  who  sat  watching  her  with  bright, 
furtive  eyes.  .  .  .  Presently  she  arose  from  the  piano 
and  crossed  the  room  to  his  side.  She  bent  over  him 
and  kissed  him  on  his  bald  forehead,  her  white  hands 
clinging  to  his  shoulders.  Jim  saw  the  man  shake  off 
those  hands  with  a  rough  gesture;  saw  the  grieved 
look  on  her  face ;  saw  the  man  follow  her  slight  figure 
with  his  eyes,  as  she  stooped  under  pretext  of  mend 
ing  the  fire.  But  he  could  not  hear  the  words  which 
passed  between  them. 

"  You  pretend  to  love  me,"  Bolton  was  saying. 
"  Why  don't  you  do  what  I  want  you  to?  " 

"  If  you'd  like  to  go  away  from  Brookville,  father, 
I  will  go  with  you.  You  need  me !  " 

"  That's  where  you're  dead  wrong,  my  girl :  I  don't 
need  you.  What  I  do  need  is  freedom!  You  stifle 
me  with  your  fussy  attentions.  Give  me  some  money ; 
I'll  go  away  and  not  bother  you  again." 

Whereat  Lydia  had  cried  out  —  a  little  hurt  cry, 
which  reached  the  ears  of  the  watcher  outside. 

"  Don't  leave  me,  father !  I  have  no  one  but  you 
in  all  the  world  —  no  one." 

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"  And  you've  never  even  told  me  how  much  money 
you  have,"  the  man  went  on  in  a  whining  voice. 
"  There's  daughterly  affection  for  you !  By  rights  it 
all  ought  to  be  mine.  I've  suffered  enough,  God 
knows,  to  deserve  a  little  comfort  now." 

"  All  that  I  have  is  yours,  father.  I  want  nothing 
for  myself." 

"  Then  hand  it  over  —  the  control  of  it,  I  mean. 
I'll  make  you  a  handsome  allowance ;  and  I'll  give  you 
this  place,  too.  I  don't  want  to  rot  here.  .  .  .  Marry 
that  good-looking  parson  and  settle  down,  if  you  like. 
I  don't  want  to  settle  down :  been  settled  in  one  cursed 
place  long  enough,  by  gad !  I  should  think  you  could 
see  that." 

"  But  you  wanted  to  come  home  to  Brookville, 
father.  Don't  you  remember  you  said  — " 

"  That  was  when  I  was  back  there  in  that  hell-hole, 
and  didn't  know  what  I  wanted.  How  could  I?  I 
only  wanted  to  get  out.  That's  what  I  want  now  — 
to  get  out  and  away!  If  you  weren't  so  damned 
selfish,  you'd  let  me  go.  I  hate  a  selfish  woman !  " 

Then  it  was  that  Jim  Dodge,  pressing  closer  to  the 
long  window,  heard  her  say  quite  distinctly : 

"  Very  well,  father ;  we  will  go.  Only  I  must  go 
with  you.  .  .  .  You  are  not  strong  enough  to  go  alone. 
We  will  go  anywhere  you  like." 

Andrew  Bolton  got  nimbly  out  of  his  chair  and  stood 
glowering  at  her  across  its  back.  Then  he  burst  into  a 
prolonged  fit  of  laughter  mixed  with  coughing. 

"  Oh,  so  you'll  go  with  father,  will  you?  "  he  splut 
tered.  "  You  insist  —  eh  ?  " 

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And,  still  coughing  and  laughing  mirthlessly,  he 
went  out  of  the  room. 

Left  to  herself,  the  girl  sat  down  quietly  enough 
before  the  fire.  Her  serene  face  told  no  story  of  in 
ward  sorrow  to  the  watchful  eyes  of  the  man  who 
loved  her.  Over  long  she  had  concealed  her  feelings, 
even  from  herself.  She  seemed  lost  in  revery,  at 
once  sad  and  profound.  Had  she  foreseen  this  dire 
disappointment  of  all  her  hopes,  he  wondered. 

He  stole  away  at  last,  half  ashamed  of  spying  upon 
her  lonely  vigil,  yet  withal  curiously  heartened.  Wes 
ley  Elliot  was  right:  Lydia  Orr  needed  a  friend.  He 
resolved  that  he  would  be  that  friend. 

In  the  room  overhead  the  light  had  leapt  to  full 
brilliancy.  An  uncertain  hand  pulled  the  shade  down 
crookedly.  As  the  young  man  turned  for  a  last  look 
at  the  house  he  perceived  a  shadow  hurriedly  passing 
and  repassing  the  lighted  window.  Then  all  at  once 
the  shadow,  curiously  huddled,  stooped  and  was  gone. 
There  was  something  sinister  in  the  sudden  disappear 
ance  of  that  active  shadow.  Jim  Dodge  watched  the 
vacant  window  for  a  long  minute;  then  with  a  mut 
tered  exclamation  walked  on  toward  the  village. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN  the  barroom  of  the  Brookville  House  the  flar 
ing  kerosene  lamp  lit  up  a  group  of  men  and 
half-grown  boys,  who  had  strayed  in  out  of  the 
chill  darkness  to  warm  themselves  around  the  great 
stove  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  The  wooden  arm 
chairs,  which  in  summer  made  a  forum  of  the  tavern's 
side  piazza,  had  been  brought  in  and  ranged  in  a  wide 
semicircle  about  the  stove,  marking  the  formal  open 
ing  of  the  winter  session.  In  the  central  chair  sat  the 
large  figure  of  Judge  Fulsom,  puffing  clouds  of  smoke 
from  a  calabash  pipe ;  his  twinkling  eyes  looking  forth 
over  his  fat,  creased  cheeks  roved  impartially  about  the 
circle  of  excited  faces. 

"  I  can  understand  all  right  about  Andrew  Bolton's 
turning  up,"  one  man  was  saying.  "  He  was  bound  to 
turn  up  sooner  or  later.  I  seen  him  myself,  day  before 
yesterday,  going  down  street.  Thinks  I,  '  Who  can 
that  be  ?  '  There  was  something  kind  of  queer  about 
the  way  he  dragged  his  feet.  What  you  going  to  do 
about  it,  Judge?  Have  we  got  to  put  up  with  having 
a  jailbird,  as  crazy  as  a  loon  into  the  bargain,  living 
right  here  in  our  midst  ?  " 

"  In  luxury  and  idleness,  like  he  was  a  captain  of 
industry,"  drawled  another  man  who  was  eating  hot 
dog  and  sipping  beer.  "  That's  what  strikes  me  kind 

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of  hard,  Judge,  in  luxury  and  idleness,  while  the  rest  of 
us  has  to  work." 

Judge  Fulsom  gave  an  inarticulate  grunt  and  smoked 
on  imperturbably. 

"  Set  down,  boys ;  set  down,"  ordered  a  small  man 
in  a  red  sweater  under  a  corduroy  coat.  "  Give  the 
Jedge  a  chance !  He  ain't  going  to  deliver  no  opinion 
whilst  you  boys  are  rammaging  around.  Set  down 
and  let  the  Jedge  take  th'  floor." 

A  general  scraping  of  chair  legs  and  a  shuffling  of 
uneasy  feet  followed  this  exhortation;  still  no  word 
from  the  huge,  impassive  figure  in  the  central  chair. 
The  oily-faced  young  man  behind  the  bar  improved 
the  opportunity  by  washing  a  dozen  or  so  glasses,  set 
ting  them  down  showily  on  a  tin  tray  in  view  of  the 
company. 

"  Quit  that  noise,  Cholley !  "  exhorted  the  small  man 
in  the  red  sweater ;  "  we  want  order  in  the  court  room 
—  eh,  Jedge?" 

"  What  I'd  like  to  know  is  where  she  got  all  that 
money  of  hers,"  piped  an  old  man,  with  a  mottled 
complexion  and  bleary  eyes. 

"  Sure  enough;  where'd  she  get  it?  "  chimed  in  half 
a  dozen  voices  at  once. 

"  She's  Andrew  Bolton's  daughter,"  said  the  first 
speaker.  "  And  she's  been  setting  up  for  a  fine  lady, 
doing  stunts  for  charity.  How  about  our  town  hall 
an'  our  lov-elly  library,  an'  our  be-utiful  drinking 
fountain,  and  the  new  shingles  on  our  church  roof? 
You  don't  want  to  ask  too  many  questions,  Lute." 

"  Don't  I  ?  "  cried  the  man,  who  was  eating  hot  dog. 


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11  You  all  know  me!  I  ain't  a-going  to  stand  for  no 
grab-game.  If  she's  got  money,  it's  more  than  likely 
the  old  fox  salted  it  down  before  they  ketched  him. 
It's  our  money;  that's  whose  money  'tis,  if  you  want 
to  know !  " 

And  he  swallowed  his  mouthful  with  a  slow,  men 
acing  glance  which  swept  the  entire  circle. 

"  Now,  Lucius/'  began  Judge  Fulsom,  removing  the 
pipe  from  his  mouth,  "  go  slow !  No  use  in  talk  with 
out  proof." 

"  But  what  have  you  got  to  say,  Jedge  ?  Where'd 
she  get  all  that  money  she's  been  flamming  about  with, 
and  that  grand  house,  better  than  new,  with  all  the  lat 
est  improvements.  Wa'n't  we  some  jays  to  be  took 
in  like  we  was  by  a  little,  white- faced  chit  like  her? 
Couldn't  see  through  a  grindstone  with  a  hole  in  it! 
Bolton  House.  .  .  .  And  an  automobile  to  fetch  the 
old  jailbird  home  in.  Wa'n't  it  love-ly  ?  " 

A  low  growl  ran  around  the  circle. 

"  Burn  you,  Lute !  Don't  you  see  the  Jedge  has 
something  to  say?  "  demanded  the  man  behind  the  bar. 

Judge  Fulsom  slowly  tapped  his  pipe  on  the  arm  of 
his  chair.  "If  you  all  will  keep  still  a  second  and  let 
me  speak,"  he  began. 

"  I  want  my  rights,"  interrupted  a  man  with  a  hoarse 
crow. 

"  Your  rights !  "  shouted  the  Judge.  "  You've  got 
no  right  to  a  damned  thing  but  a  good  horsewhip 
ping!" 

"  I've  got  my  rights  to  the  money  other  folks  are 
keeping,  I'll  let  you  know !  " 

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Then  the  Judge  fairly  bellowed,  as  he  got  slowly  to 
his  feet : 

"  I  tell  you  once  for  all,  the  whole  damned  lot  of 
you,"  he  shouted,  "  that  every  man,  woman  and  child 
in  Brookville  has  been  paid,  compensated,  remuner 
ated  and  requited  in  full  for  every  cent  he,  she  or  it 
lost  in  the  Andrew  Bolton  bank  failure." 

There  was  a  snarl  of  dissent. 

"  You  all  better  go  slow,  and  hold  your  tongues,  and 
mind  your  own  business.  Remember  what  I  say ;  that 
girl  does  not  owe  a  red  cent  in  this  town,  neither  does 
her  father.  She's  paid  in  full,  and  you've  spent  a  lot 
of  it  in  here,  too !  "  The  Judge  wiped  his  red  face. 

"  Oh,  come  on,  Jedge ;  you  don't  want  to  be  hard  on 
the  house,"  protested  the  man  in  the  red  sweater,  wav 
ing  his  arms  as  frantically  as  a  freight  brakeman. 
"  Say,  you  boys !  don't  ye  git  excited !  The  Jedge 
didn't  mean  that;  you  got  him  kind  of  het  up  with 
argufying.  .  .  .  Down  in  front,  boys !  You,  Lute — " 

But  it  was  too  late :  half  a  dozen  voices  were  shout 
ing  at  once.  There  was  a  simultaneous  descent  upon 
the  bar,  with  loud  demands  for  liquor  of  the  sort  Lute 
Parsons  filled  up  on.  Then  the  raucous  voice  of  the 
ringleader  pierced  the  tumult. 

"  Come  on,  boys !  Let's  go  out  to  the  old  place  and 
get  our  rights  off  that  gal  of  Bolton's !  " 

"  That's  th'  stuff,  Lute !  "  yelled  the  others,  clash 
ing  their  glasses  wildly.  "  Come  on !  Come  on,  every 
body  !  " 

In  vain  Judge  Fulsom  hammered  on  the  bar  and 
called  for  order  in  the  court  room.  The  majesty  of  the 

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law,  as  embodied  in  his  great  bulk,  appeared  to  have 
lost  its  power.  Even  his  faithful  henchman  in  the  red 
sweater  had  joined  the  rioters  and  was  yelling  wildly 
for  his  rights.  Somebody  flung  wide  the  door,  and  the 
barroom  emptied  itself  into  the  night,  leaving  the  oily 
young  man  at  his  post  of  duty  gazing  fearfully  at  the 
purple  face  of  Judge  Fulsom,  who  stood  staring,  as  if 
stupified,  at  the  overturned  chairs,  the  broken  glasses 
and  the  empty  darkness  outside. 

"  Say,  Jedge,  them  boys  was  sure  some  excited/' 
ventured  the  bartender  timidly.  "  You  don't 
s'pose  _ " 

The  big  man  put  himself  slowly  into  motion. 

"  I'll  get  th'  constable,"  he  growled.  "  I  —  I'll  run 
'em  in;  and  I'll  give  Lute  Parsons  the  full  extent  of 
the  law,  if  it's  the  last  thing  I  do  on  earth.  I  —  I'll 
teach  them!  —  I'll  give  them  all  they're  lookin'  for." 

And  he,  too,  went  out,  leaving  the  door  swinging  in 
the  cold  wind. 

At  the  corner,  still  meditating  vengeance  for  this 
affront  to  his  dignity,  Judge  Fulsom  almost  collided 
with  the  hurrying  figure  of  a  man  approaching  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

"Hello!"  he  challenged  sharply.  "Where  you 
goin'  so  fast,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  Evening,  Judge,"  responded  the  man,  giving  the 
other  a  wide  margin. 

"  Oh,  it's  Jim  Dodge  —  eh  ?  Say,  Jim,  did  you  meet 
any  of  the  boys  on  the  road?  " 

"What  boys?" 

"  Why,  we  got  into  a  little  discussion  over  to  the 
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Brookville  House  about  this  Andrew  Bolton  business 
—  his  coming  back  unexpected,  you  know ;  and  some  of 
the  boys  seemed  to  think  they  hadn't  got  all  that  was 
coming  to  them  by  rights.  Lute  Parsons  he  gets  kind 
of  worked  up  after  about  three  or  four  glasses,  and  he 
sicked  the  boys  onto  going  out  there,  and  — " 

"Going  out  —  where?  In  the  name  of  Heaven, 
what  do  you  mean,  Judge?  " 

"  I  told  'em  to  keep  cool  and  —  Say,  don't  be  in  a 
hurry,  Jim.  I  had  an  awful  good  mind  to  call  out 
Hank  Simonson  to  run  a  few  of  'em  in.  But  I  dunno 
as  the  boys'll  do  any  real  harm.  They  wouldn't  dare. 
They  know  me,  and  they  know  — " 

"  Do  you  mean  that  drunken  mob  was  headed  for 
Bolton  House?  Why,  Good  Lord,  man,  she's  there 
practically  alone !  " 

"  Well,  perhaps  you'd  better  see  if  you  can  get  some 
help,"  began  the  Judge,  whose  easy-going  disposition 
was  already  balking  at  effort. 

But  Jim  Dodge,  shouting  back  a  few  trenchant  direc 
tions,  had  already  disappeared,  running  at  top  speed. 

There  was  a  short  cut  to  Bolton  House,  across 
plowed  fields  and  through  a  patch  of  woodland. 
Jim  Dodge  ran  all  the  way,  wading  a  brook,  swollen 
with  the  recent  rains,  tearing  his  way  through  thickets 
of  brush  and  bramble,  the  twinkling  lights  in  the  top 
story  of  the  distant  house  leading  him  on.  Once  he 
paused  for  an  instant,  thinking  he  heard  the  clamor  of 
rude  voices  borne  on  the  wind;  then  plunged  forward 
again,  his  flying  feet  seemingly  weighted  with  lead; 
and  all  the  while  an  agonizing  picture  of  Lydia,  white 

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and  helpless,  facing  the  crowd  of  drunken  men  flitted 
before  his  eyes. 

Now  he  had  reached  the  wall  at  the  rear  of  the  gar 
dens  ;  had  clambered  over  it,  dropping  to  his  feet  in  the 
midst  of  a  climbing  rose  which  clutched  at  him  with 
its  thorny  branches ;  had  run  across  an  acre  of  kitchen 
garden  and  leaped  the  low-growing  hedge  which  di 
vided  it  from  the  sunken  flower  garden  he  had  made  for 
Lydia.  Here  were  more  rosebushes  and  an  intermi 
nable  space  broken  by  walks  and  a  sundial,  masked  by 
shrubs,  with  which  he  collided  violently.  There  was  no 
mistaking  the  clamor  from  the  front  of  the  house ;  the 
rioters  had  reached  their  quarry  first!  Not  stopping 
to  consider  what  one  man,  single-handed  and  unarmed, 
could  do  against  a  score  of  drunken  opponents,  the 
young  man  rounded  the  corner  of  the  big  house  just  as, 
the  door  was  flung  wide  and  the  slim  figure  of  Lydia 
stood  outlined  against  the  bright  interior. 

"  What  do  you  want,  men  ?  "  she  called  out,  in  her 
clear,  fearless  voice.  "  What  has  happened?  " 

There  was  a  confused  murmur  of  voices  in  reply. 
Most  of  the  men  were  decent  enough  fellows,  when 
sober.  Some  one  was  heard  to  suggest  a  retreat :  "  No 
need  to  scare  the  young  lady.  'Tain't  her  fault !  " 

"  Aw !  shut  up,  you  coward ! "  shouted  another. 
"  We  want  our  money !  " 

"  Where  did  you  get  yer  money?  "  demanded  a  third. 
"  You  tell  us  that,  young  woman.  That's  what  we're 
after!" 

"Where's  the  old  thief?  .  .  .  We  want  Andrew  Bol- 
ton!" 

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Then  from  somewhere  in  the  darkness  a  pebble  flung 
by  a  reckless  hand  shattered  a  pane  of  glass.  At  sound 
of  the  crash  all  pretense  of  decency  and  order  seemed 
abandoned.  The  spirit  of  the  pack  broke  loose ! 

Just  what  happened  from  the  moment  when  he  leaped 
upon  the  portico,  wrenching  loose  a  piece  of  iron  pipe 
which  formed  the  support  of  a  giant  wistaria,  Jim 
Dodge  could  never  afterward  recall  in  precise  detail. 
A  sort  of  wild  rage  seized  him;  he  struck  right  and 
left  among  the  dark  figures  swarming  up  the  steps. 
There  were  cries,  shouts,  curses,  flying  stones;  then 
he  had  dragged  Lydia  inside  and  bolted  the  heavy  door 
between  them  and  the  ugly  clamor  without. 

She  faced  him  where  he  stood,  breathing  hard,  his 
back  against  the  barred  door. 

"  They  were  saying  — "  she  whispered,  her  face  still 
and  white.  "  My  God !  What  do  they  think  I've 
done?" 

"  They're  drunk,"  he  explained.  "  It  was  only  a  mis 
erable  rabble  from  the  barroom  in  the  village.  But  if 
you'd  been  here  alone  — !  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  I  recognized  the  man  who  spoke  first ;  his  name  is 
Parsons.  There  were  others,  too,  who  worked  on  the 
place  here  in  the  summer.  .  .  .  They  have  heard  ?  " 

He  nodded,  unable  to  speak  because  of  something 
which  rose  in  his  throat  choking  him.  Then  he  saw  a 
thin  trickle  of  red  oozing  from  under  the  fair  hair 
above  her  temple,  and  the  blood  hammered  in  his  ears. 

"You  are  hurt!"  he  said  thickly.  "The  devils 
struck  you!" 

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"  It's  nothing  —  a  stone,  perhaps." 

Something  in  the  sorrowful  look  she  gave  him  broke 
down  the  flimsy  barrier  between  them. 

"  Lydia  —  Lydia !  "  he  cried,  holding  out  his  arms. 

She  clung  to  him  like  a  child.  They  stood  so  for  a 
moment,  listening  to  the  sounds  from  without.  There 
were  still  occasional  shouts  and  the  altercation  of  loud, 
angry  voices ;  but  this  was  momently  growing  fainter ; 
presently  it  died  away  altogether. 

She  stirred  in  his  arms  and  he  stooped  to  look  into 
her  face. 

"I  —  Father  will  be  frightened,"  she  murmured, 
drawing  away  from  him  with  a  quick  decided  move 
ment.  "  You  must  let  me  go." 

"  Not  until  I  have  told  yon,  Lydia !  I  am  poor, 
rough  —  not  worthy  to  touch  you  —  but  I  love  you 
with  my  whole  heart  and  soul,  Lydia.  You  must  let 
me  take  care  of  you.  You  need  me,  dear." 

Tears  overflowed  her  eyes,  quiet,  patient  tears;  but 
she  answered  steadily. 

"  Can't  you  see  that  I  —  I  am  different  from  other 
women  ?  I  have  only  one  thing  to  live  for.  I  must  go 
to  him.  .  .  .  You  had  forgotten  —  him." 

In  vain  he  protested,  arguing  his  case  with  all  lover's 
skill  and  ingenuity.  She  shook  her  head. 

"  Sometime  you  will  forgive  me  that  one  moment  of 
weakness,"  she  said  sadly.  "  I  was  frightened  and  — 
tired." 

He  followed  her  upstairs  in  gloomy  silence.  The 
old  man,  she  was  telling  him  hurriedly,  would  be  terri 
fied.  She  must  reassure  him;  and  tomorrow  they 

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would  go  away  together  for  a  long  journey.  She  could 
see  now  that  she  had  made  a  cruel  mistake  in  bringing 
him  to  Brookville. 

But  there  was  no  answer  in  response  to  her  repeated 
tapping  at  his  door;  and  suddenly  the  remembrance  of 
that  stooping  shadow  came  back  to  him. 

"  Let  me  go  in,"  he  said,  pushing  her  gently  aside. 

The  lights,  turned  high  in  the  quiet  room,  revealed 
only  emptiness  and  disorder;  drawers  and  wardrobes 
pulled  wide,  scattered  garments  apparently  dropped  at 
random  on  chairs  and  tables.  The  carpet,  drawn  aside 
in  one  corner,  disclosed  a  shallow  aperture  in  the  floor, 
from  which  the  boards  had  been  lifted. 

"  Why  —  What  ?  "  stammered  the  girl,  all  the  high 
courage  gone  from  her  face.  "  What  has  happened  ?  " 

He  picked  up  a  box  —  a  common  cigar  box  —  from 
amid  the  litter  of  abandoned  clothing.  It  was  quite 
empty  save  for  a  solitary  slip  of  greenish  paper  which 
had  somehow  adhered  to  the  bottom. 

Lydia  clutched  the  box  in  both  trembling  hands, 
staring  with  piteous  eyes  at  the  damning  evidence  of 
that  bit  of  paper. 

"  Money !  "  she  whispered.  "  He  must  have  hidden 
it  before  —  before  —  Oh,  father,  father !  " 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

HISTORY  is  said  to  repeat  itself,  as  if  indeed 
the  world  were  a  vast  pendulum,  swinging  be 
tween  events  now  inconceivably  remote,  and 
again  menacing  and  near.  And  if  in  things  great  and 
heroic,  so  also  in  the  less  significant  aspects  of  life. 

Mrs.  Henry  Daggett  stood,  weary  but  triumphant, 
amid  the  nearly  completed  preparations  for  a  reception 
in  the  new  church  parlors,  her  broad,  rosy  face  wearing 
a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  Don't  it  look  nice?  "  she  said,  by  way  of  expressing 
her  overflowing  contentment. 

Mrs.  Maria  Dodge,  evergreen  wreaths  looped  over 
one  arm,  nodded. 

"  It  certainly  does  look  fine,  Abby,"  said  she.  "  And 
I  guess  nobody  but  you  would  have  thought  of  having 
it." 

Mrs.  Daggett  beamed.  "  I  thought  of  it  the  minute 
I  heard  about  that  city  church  that  done  it.  I  call  it 
a  real  tasty  way  to  treat  a  minister  as  nice  as  ours." 

"  So  'tis,"  agreed  Mrs.  Dodge  with  the  air  of  com 
placent  satisfaction  she  had  acquired  since  Fanny's  mar 
riage  to  the  minister.  "  And  I  think  Wesley'll  ap 
preciate  it." 

Mrs.  Daggett's  face  grew  serious.  Then  her  soft 
bosom  heaved  with  mirth. 

"  'Tain't  everybody  that's  lucky  enough  to  have  a 

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minister  right  in  the  family,"  said  she  briskly. 
"  Mebbe  if  I  was  to  hear  a  sermon  preached  every  day 
in  the  week  I'd  get  some  piouser  myself.  I've  been 
comparing  this  with  the  fair  we  had  last  summer.  It 
ain't  so  grand,  but  it's  newer.  A  fair's  like  a  work  of 
nature,  Maria ;  sun  and  rain  and  dew,  and  the  scrapings 
from  the  henyard,  all  mixed  with  garden  ground  to 
fetch  out  cabbages,  potatoes  or  roses.  God  gives  the 
increase." 

Mrs.  Dodge  stared  at  her  friend  in  amazement. 

"  That  sounds  real  beautiful,  Abby,"  she  said. 
"  You  must  have  thought  it  all  out." 

"That's  just  what  I  done,"  confirmed  Mrs.  Dag- 
gett  happily.  "  I'm  always  meditating  about  some 
thing,  whilst  I'm  working  'round  th'  house.  And  it's 
amazing  what  thoughts'll  come  to  a  body  from  some- 
wheres.  .  .  .  What  you  going  to  do  with  them  wreaths, 
Maria?" 

"  Why,  I  was  thinking  of  putting  'em  right  up 
here,"  said  Mrs.  Dodge,  pointing. 

"  A  good  place,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  Remember 
Fanny  peeking  through  them  wreaths  last  summer? 
Pretty  as  a  pink!  An'  now  she's  Mis'  Reveren' 
Elliot.  I  seen  him  looking  at  her  that  night.  .  .  . 
My!  My!  What  lots  of  things  have  took  place  in 
our  midst  since  then." 

Mrs.  Dodge,  from  the  lofty  elevation  of  a  stepladder, 
looked  across  the  room. 

"  Here  comes  Ann  Whittle  with  two  baskets,"  she 
said,  "  and  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  carrying  a  big  cake, 
and  a  whole  crowd  of  ladies  just  behind  'em." 

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"  Glad  they  ain't  going  to  be  late  like  they  was  last 
year,"  said  Mrs.  Daggett.  "  My  sakes !  I  hadn't 
thought  so  much  about  that  fair  till  today ;  the  scent  of 
the  evergreens  brings  it  all  back.  We  was  wondering 
who'd  buy  the  things ;  remember,  Maria  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  I  did,"  assented  Mrs.  Dodge,  hopping 
nimbly  down  from  the  ladder.  "  There,  that  looks 
even  nicer  than  it  did  at  the  fair;  don't  you  think  so, 
Abby?" 

"  It  looks  perfectly  lovely,  Maria." 

"  Well,  here  we  are  at  last,"  announced  Mrs.  Whit 
tle  as  she  entered.  "  I  had  to  wait  till  the  frosting 
stiffened  up  on  my  cake." 

She  bustled  over  to  a  table  and  began  to  take  the 
things  out  of  her  baskets.  Mrs.  Daggett  hurried  for 
ward  to  meet  Mrs.  Solomon  Black,  who  was  advanc 
ing  with  slow  majesty,  bearing  a  huge  disk  covered 
with  tissue  paper. 

Mrs.  Black  was  not  the  only  woman  in  the  town  of 
Brookville  who  could  now  boast  sleeves  made  in  the 
latest  Parisian  style.  Her  quick  black  eyes  had  al 
ready  observed  the  crisp  blue  taffeta,  in  which  Mrs. 
Whittle  was  attired,  and  the  fresh  muslin  gowns 
decked  with  uncreased  ribbons  worn  by  Mrs.  Daggett 
and  her  friend,  Maria  Dodge.  Mrs.  Solomon  Black's 
water-waves  were  crisp  and  precise,  as  of  yore,  and 
her  hard  red  cheeks  glowed  like  apples  above  the 
elaborate  embroidery  of  her  dress. 

"  Here,  Mis'  Black,  let  me  take  your  cake !  "  offered 
Abby  Daggett.  "  I  sh'd  think  your  arm  would  be 
most  broke  carryin'  it  all  the  way  from  your  house." 

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"  Thank  you,  Abby;  but  I  wouldn't  das'  t'  resk 
changin'  it;  I'll  set  it  right  down  where  it's  t'  go." 

The  brisk  chatter  and  laughter,  which  by  now  had 
prevaded  the  big  place,  ceased  as  by  a  preconcerted 
signal,  and  a  dozen  women  gathered  about  the  table 
toward  which  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  was  moving  like 
the  central  figure  in  some  stately  pageant. 

"  Fer  pity  sake !  "  whispered  Mrs.  Mixter,  "  what 
d'  you  s'pose  she's  got  under  all  that  tissue  paper?" 

Mrs.  Solomon  Black  set  the  great  cake,  still  veiled, 
in  the  middle  of  the  table;  then  she  straightened  her 
self  and  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  eager, 
curious  faces  gathered  around. 

"There!"  she  said.  "I  feel  now  's  V  I  could 
dror  m'  breath  once  more.  I  ain't  joggled  it  once, 
so's  t'  hurt,  since  I  started  from  home." 

Then  slowly  she  withdrew  the  shrouding  tissue  pa 
per  from  the  creation  she  had  thus  triumphantly  borne 
to  its  place  of  honor,  and  stood  off,  a  little  to  one  side, 
her  face  one  broad  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"  Fer  goodness'  sake !  " 

"  Did  you  ev  —  er !  " 

"Why,  Mis' Black!" 

"  Ain't  that  just  — " 

"You  never  done  that  all  yourself?" 

Mrs.  Black  nodded  slowly,  almost  solemnly.  The 
huge  cake  which  was  built  up  in  successive  steps,  like  a 
pyramid,  was  crowned  on  its  topmost  disk  by  a  bridal 
scene,  a  tiny  man  holding  his  tiny  veiled  bride  by  the 
hand  in  the  midst  of  an  expanse  of  pink  frosting. 
About  the  side  of  the  great  cake,  in  brightly  colored 

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"  mites,"  was  inscribed  "  Greetings  to  our  Pastor  and 
his  Bride." 

"  I  thought  'twould  be  kind  of  nice,  seeing  our  min 
ister  was  just  married,  and  so,  in  a  way,  this  is  a 
wedding  reception.  I  don't  know  what  the  rest  of  you 
ladies'll  think." 

Abby  Daggett  stood  with  clasped  hands,  her  big 
soft  bosom  rising  and  falling  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy. 

"Why,  Phoebe,"  she  said,  "it's  a  real  poem!  It 
couldn't  be  no  han'somer  if  it  had  been  done  right  up 
in  heaven !  " 

She  put  her  arms  about  Mrs.  Solomon  Black  and 
kissed  her. 

"  And  this  ain't  all,"  said  Mrs.  Black.  "  Lois  Dag 
gett  is  going  to  fetch  over  a  chocolate  cake  and  a  batch 
of  crullers  for  me  when  she  comes." 

Applause  greeted  this  statement. 

"  Time  was,"  went  on  Mrs.  Black,  "  and  not  so  long 
ago,  neither,  when  I  was  afraid  to  spend  a  cent,  for 
fear  of  a  rainy  day  that's  been  long  coming.  'Tain't 
got  here  yet;  but  I  can  tell  you  ladies,  I  got  a  lesson 
from  her  in  generosity  I  don't  mean  to  forget.  *  Spend 
and  be  spent '  is  my  motto  from  now  on ;  so  I  didn't 
grudge  the  new-laid  eggs  I  put  in  that  cake,  nor  yet  the 
sugar,  spice  nor  raisins.  There's  three  cakes  in  one 
—  in  token  of  the  trinity  (I  do  hope  th'  won't  no 
body  think  it's  wicked  t'  mention  r'ligion  in  connection 
with  a  cake)  ;  the  bottom  cake  was  baked  in  a  milk- 
pan,  an*  it's  a  bride's  cake,  being  made  with  the  whites 
of  fourteen  perfec'ly  fresh  eggs;  the  next  layer  is 
fruit  and  spice,  as  rich  as  wedding  cake  ought  to  be; 

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the  top  cake  is  best  of  all;  and  can  be  lifted  right  off 
and  given  to  Rever'nd  an'  Mrs.  Wesley  Elliott.  ...  I 
guess  they'll  like  to  keep  the  wedding  couple  for  a 


souvenir." 


A  vigorous  clapping  of  hands  burst  forth.  Mrs. 
Solomon  Black  waited  modestly  till  this  gratify 
ing  demonstration  had  subsided,  then  she  went 
on: 

"  I  guess  most  of  you  ladies'll  r'member  how  one 
short  year  ago  Miss  Lyddy  Orr  Bolton  came  a-walkin' 
int'  our  midst,  lookin'  sweet  an'  modest,  like  she  was ; 
and  how  down-in-th'-mouth  we  was  all  a-feelin',  'count 
o'  havin'  no  money  t'  buy  th'  things  we'd  worked  s' 
hard  t'  make.  Some  of  us  hadn't  no  more  grit  an' 
gumption  'n  Ananias  an'  S'phira,  t'  say  nothin'  o' 
Jonah  an'  others  I  c'd  name.  In  she  came,  an'  ev'ry- 
thin'  was  changed  from  that  minute!  .  .  .  Now,  I 
want  we  sh'd  cut  up  that  cake  —  after  everybody's  had 
a  chance  t'  see  it  good  —  all  but  th'  top  layer,  same's 
I  said  —  an'  all  of  us  have  a  piece,  out  o'  compl'ment 
t'  our  paster  an'  his  wife,  an'  in  memory  o'  her,  who's 
gone  from  us." 

"  But  Lyddy  Orr  ain't  dead,  Mis'  Black,"  protested 
Mrs.  Daggett  warmly. 

"  She  might 's  well  be,  's  fur  's  our  seein'  her  's  con 
cerned,"  replied  Mrs.  Black.  "  She's  gone  t'  Boston  t' 
stay  f'r  good,  b'cause  she  couldn't  stan'  it  no-how  here 
in  Brookville,  after  her  pa  was  found  dead.  The' 
was  plenty  o'  hard  talk,  b'fore  an'  after;  an'  when  it 
come  t'  breakin'  her  windows  with  stones  an'  hittin' 
her  in  th'  head,  so  she  was  'bleeged  t'  have  three  stitches 

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took,  all  I  c'n  say  is  I  don't  wonder  she  went  t'  Bos 
ton.  .  .  .  Anyway,  that's  my  wish  an'  d'sire  'bout 
that  cake/' 

The  arrival  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wesley  Elliott  offered 
a  welcome  interruption  to  a  scene  which  was  becoming 
uncomfortably  tense.  Whatever  prickings  of  con 
science  there  might  have  been  under  the  gay  muslin  and 
silks  of  her  little  audience,  each  woman  privately  re 
sented  the  superior  attitude  assumed  by  Mrs.  Solomon 
Black. 

"  Easy  f  'r  her  t'  talk/'  murmured  Mrs.  Fulsom, 
from  between  puckered  lips;  "she  didn't  lose  no 
money  off  Andrew  Bolton." 

"  An'  she  didn't  get  none,  neither,  when  it  come  t' 
dividin'  up,"  Mrs.  Mixter  reminded  her. 

"  That's  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Fulsom,  as  she  followed 
in  pretty  Mrs.  Mixter's  wake  to  greet  the  newly-mar 
ried  pair. 

"  My !  ain't  you  proud  o'  her,"  whispered  Abby 
Daggett  to  Maria  Dodge.  "  She's  a  perfec'  pictur'  o' 
joy,  if  ever  I  laid  my  eyes  on  one !  " 

Fanny  stood  beside  her  tall  husband,  her  pretty  face 
irradiating  happiness.  She  felt  a  sincere  pity  well 
ing  up  in  her  heart  for  Ellen  Dix  and  Joyce  Fulsom 
and  the  other  girls.  Compared  with  her  own  tran 
scendent  experiences,  their  lives  seemed  cold  and  bleak 
to  Fanny.  And  all  the  while  she  was  talking  to  the 
women  who  crowded  about  her. 

"  Yes ;  we  are  getting  nicely  settled,  thank  you,  Mrs. 
Fulsom  —  all  but  the  attic.  Oh,  how'd  you  do,  Judge 
Fulsom?" 

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The  big  man  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  bald 
forehead. 

"Just  been  fetchin'  in  th'  ice  cream  freezers,"  he 
said,  with  his  booming  chuckle.  "  I  guess  I'm  's  well 's 
c'n  be  expected,  under  th'  circumstances,  ma'am.  .  .  . 
An'  that  r'minds  me,  parson,  a  little  matter  was 
s'ggested  t'  me.  In  fact,  I'd  thought  of  it,  some  time 
ago.  No  more  'n  right,  in  view  o'  th'  facts.  If  you 
don't  mind,  I'll  outline  th'  idee  t'  you,  parson,  an' 
see  if  you  approve." 

Fanny,  striving  to  focus  attention  on  the  pointed  re 
marks  Miss  Lois  Daggett  was  making,  caught  occa 
sional  snatches  of  their  conversation.  Fanny  had  never 
liked  Lois  Daggett;  but  in  her  new  role  of  minister's 
wife,  it  was  her  foreordained  duty  to  love  everybody 
and  to  condole  and  sympathize  with  the  parish  at  large. 
One  could  easily  sympathize  with  Lois  Daggett,  she 
was  thinking;  what  would  it  be  like  to  be  obliged 
daily  to  face  the  reflection  of  that  mottled  complexion, 
that  long,  pointed  nose,  with  its  rasped  tip,  that  drab 
lifeless  hair  with  its  sharp  hairpin  crimp,  and  those 
small  greenish  eyes  with  no  perceptible  fringe  of 
lashes?  Fanny  looked  down  from  her  lovely  height 
into  Miss  Daggett's  upturned  face  and  pitied  her  from 
the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

"  I  hear  your  brother  Jim  has  gone  t'  Boston,"  Miss 
Daggett  was  saying  with  a  simper. 

From  the  rear  Fanny  heard  Judge  Fulsom's  rum 
bling  monotone,  earnestly  addressed  to  her  hus 
band: 

"  Not  that  Boston  ain't  a  nice  town  t'  live  in ;  but 
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we'll  have  t'  enter  a  demurrer  against  her  staying  there 
f'rgood.  Y'see  — " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fanny,  smiling  at  Miss  Daggett.  "  He 
went  several  days  ago." 

"  H'm-m,"  murmured  Miss  Daggett.  "She's  livin' 
there,  ain't  she?" 

"You  mean  Miss  Orr?" 

"  I  mean  Miss  Lyddy  Bolton.  I  guess  Bolton's  a 
good  'nough  name  for  hem." 

From  the  Judge,  in  a  sorhewhat  louder  tone : 

"  That's  th'  way  it  looks  t'  me,  dominie ;  an*  if  all 
th'  leadin'  citizens  of  Brookville'll  put  their  name  to 
it  —  an'  I'm  of  th'  opinion  they  will,  when  I  make  my 
charge  t'  th'  jury — " 

"  Certainly,"  murmured  Fanny  absently,  as  she  gazed 
at  her  husband  and  the  judge. 

She  couldn't  help  wondering  why  her  Wesley  was 
speaking  so  earnestly  to  the  Judge,  yet  in  such  a  pro- 
vokingly  low  tone  of  voice. 

"  I  had  become  so  accustomed  to  thinking  of  her  as 
Lydia  Orr,"  she  finished  hastily. 

"  Well,  I  don't  b'lieve  in  givin'  out  a  name  'at  ain't 
yourn,"  said  Lois  Daggett,  sharply.  "  She'd  ought 
t'  'a'  told  right  out  who  she  was,  an'  what  she  come 
t'  Brookville  for." 

Judge  Fulsom  and  the  minister  had  moved  still  fur 
ther  away.  Fanny,  with  some  alarm,  felt  herself 
alone. 

"  I  don't  think  Miss  Orr  meant  to  be  deceitful," 
she  said  nervously. 

"  Well,  o'  course,  if  she's  a-goin'  t'  be  in  th'  family, 
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it's  natural  you  sh'd  think  so,"  said  Lois  Daggett, 
sniffing  loudly. 

Fanny  did  not  answer. 

"  I  sh'd  hope  she  an'  Jim  was  engaged,"  proclaimed 
Miss  Daggett.  "If  they  ain't,  they'd  ought  t'  be." 

"Why  should  you  say  that,  Miss  Lois?"  asked 
Fanny  hurriedly.  "  They  are  very  good  friends." 

Miss  Daggett  bent  forward,  lowering  her  voice. 

"  The's  one  thing  I'd  like  t'  know  f  'r  certain,"  she 
said :  "  Did  Jim  Dodge  find  that  body  ?  " 

Fanny  stared  at  her  inquisitor  resentfully. 

"  There  were  a  good  many  persons  searching/'  she 
said  coldly. 

Miss  Daggett  wagged  her  head  in  an  irritated  fash 
ion. 

"  Of  course  I  know  that''  she  snapped.  "  What  I 
want  t'  know  is  whether  Jim  Dodge  — " 

"  I  never  asked  my  brother,"  interrupted  Fanny. 
"  It  all  happened  so  long  ago,  why  not — " 

"  Not  s'  terrible  long,"  disagreed  Miss  Daggett. 
"  It  was  th'  first  o'  November.  "  N'  I've  got  a  mighty 
good  reason  f'r  askin'." 

"You  have?"  murmured  Fanny,  flashing  a  glance 
of  entreaty  at  her  husband. 

"  Some  of  us  ladies  was  talkin'  it  over,"  pursued 
the  spinster  relentlessly,  "  an'  I  says  t'  Mis'  Deacon 
Whittle :  '  Who  counted  th'  money  'at  was  found  on 
Andrew  Bolton's  body?'  I  says.  '  W'y,'  s'  she,  '  th' 
ones  'at  found  him  out  in  th'  woods  where  he  got  lost, 
I  s'pose.'  But  come  t'  sift  it  right  down  t'  facts,  not 
one  o'  them  ladies  c'd  tell  f'r  certain  who  't  was  'at 

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found  that  body.  The'  was  such  an'  excitement  'n' 
hullaballoo,  nobody  'd  thought  t'  ask.  It  wa'n't  Dea 
con  Whittle ;  n'r  it  wa'n't  th'  party  from  th'  Brookville 
House;  ner  Hank  Simonson,  ner  any  o'  the  boys.  It 
was  Jim  Dodge,  an'  she  was  with  him!" 

"  Well,"  said  Fanny  faintly. 

She  looked  up  to  meet  the  minister's  eyes,  with  a 
sense  of  strong  relief.  Wesley  was  so  wise  and  good. 
Wesley  would  know  just  what  to  say  to  this  prying 
woman. 

"  What  are  you  and  Miss  Daggett  talking  about 
so  earnestly?"  asked  the  minister. 

When  informed  of  the  question  under  discussion,  he 
frowned  thoughtfully. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Daggett,"  he  said,  "  if  you  will 
fetch  me  the  dinner  bell  from  Mrs.  Whittle's  kitchen, 
I  shall  be  happy  to  answer  your  question  and  others 
like  it  which  have  reached  me  from  time  to  time  con 
cerning  this  unhappy  affair." 

"Mis'  Deacon  Whittle's  dinner  bell?"  gasped  Lois 
Daggett.  "  What's  that  got  t'  do  with  — " 

"  Bring  it  to  me,  and  you'll  see,"  smiled  the  minister 
imperturbably. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Wesley?  "  whispered 
Fanny. 

He  gazed  gravely  down  into  her  lovely  eyes. 

"Dearest,"  he  whispered  back,  "trust  me!  It  is 
time  we  laid  this  uneasy  ghost ;  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

By  now  the  large  room  was  well  filled  with  men, 
women  and  children.  The  ice  cream  was  being  passed 
around  when  suddenly  the  clanging  sound  of  a  dinner 
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bell,  vigorously  operated  by  Joe  Whittle,  arrested  at 
tention. 

"  The  minister's  got  something  to  say  !  The 
minister's  got  something  to  say!"  shouted  the 
boy. 

Wesley  Elliot,  standing  apart,  lifted  his  hand  in 
token  of  silence,  then  he  spoke : 

"  I  have  taken  this  somewhat  unusual  method  of 
asking  your  attention  to  a  matter  which  has  for  many 
years  past  enlisted  your  sympathies/'  he  began :  "  I 
refer  to  the  Bolton  affair." 

The  sound  of  breath  sharply  indrawn  and  the  stir 
of  many  feet  died  into  profound  silence  as  the  minister 
went  on,  slowly  and  with  frequent  pauses : 

"  Most  of  you  are  already  familiar  with  the  sordid 
details.  It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  go  back  to  the  day, 
now  nearly  nineteen  years  ago,  when  many  of  you 
found  yourselves  unexpectedly  impoverished  because  the 
man  you  trusted  had  defaulted.  .  .  .  There  was  much 
suffering  in  Brookville  that  winter,  and  since.  .  .  . 
When  I  came  to  this  parish  I  found  it  —  sick.  Because 
of  the  crime  of  Andrew  Bolton?  No.  I  repeat  the 
word  with  emphasis :  No  !  Brookville  was  sick,  des 
pondent,  dull,  gloomy  and  impoverished  —  not  because 
of  Andrew  Bolton's  crime ;  but  because  Brookville  had 
never  forgiven  Andrew  Bolton.  .  .  .  Hate  is  the  one 
destructive  element  in  the  universe;  did  you  know 
that,  friends?  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  or  woman 
who  hates  another  to  prosper.  .  .  .  And  I'll  tell  you 
why  this  is  —  why  it  must  be  true :  God  is  love  — 
the  opposite  of  hate.  Hence  All  Power  is  enlisted  on 


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the  side  of  love.  .  .  .  Think  this  over,  and  you'll  know 
it  is  true.  .  .  .  Now  the  Bolton  mystery :  A  year  ago 
we  were  holding  a  fair  in  this  village,  which  was  sick 
and  impoverished  because  it  had  never  forgiven  the 
man  who  stole  its  money.  .  .  .  You  all  remember 
that  occasion.  There  were  things  to  sell ;  but  nobody 
had  money  to  buy  them.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant  occa 
sion.  Nobody  was  enjoying  it,  least  of  all  your  minis 
ter.  But  a  miracle  took  place —  There  are  miracles 
in  the  world  today,  as  there  always  have  been,  thank 
God!  There  came  into  Brookville  that  day  a  person 
who  was  moved  by  love.  Every  impulse  of  her  heart ; 
everything  she  did  was  inspired  by  that  mightiest  force 
of  the  universe.  She  called  herself  Lydia  Orr.  .  .  . 
She  had  been  called  Lydia  Orr,  as  far  back  as  she  could 
remember ;  so  she  did  no  wrong  to  anyone  by  retaining 
that  name.  But  she  had  another  name,  which  she 
quickly  found  was  a  byword  and  a  hissing  in  Brook 
ville.  Was  it  strange  that  she  shrank  from  telling  it? 
She  believed  in  the  forgiveness  of  sins;  and  she  had 
come  to  right  a  great  wrong.  .  .  .  She  did  what  she 
could,  as  it  is  written  of  another  woman,  who  poured 
out  a  fragrant  offering  of  love  unappreciated  save  by 
One.  .  .  .  There  quickly  followed  the  last  chapter  in 
the  tragedy  —  for  it  was  all  a  tragedy,  friends,  as  I 
look  at  it :  the  theft ;  the  pitiful  attempt  to  restore  four 
fold  all  that  had  been  taken ;  the  return  of  that  ruined 
man,  Andrew  Bolton,  after  his  heavy  punishment ;  and 
his  tragic  death.  .  .  .  Some  of  you  may  not  know  all 
that  happened  that  night.  You  do  know  of  the  cow 
ardly  attack  made  upon  the  helpless  girl.  You  know 

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of  the  flight  of  the  terrified  man,  of  how  he  was  found 
dead  two  days  later  three  miles  from  the  village,  in  a 
lonely  spot  where  he  had  perished  from  hunger  and 
exposure.  .  .  .  The  body  was  discovered  by  James 
Dodge,  with  the  aid  of  his  dog.  With  him  on  that 
occasion  was  a  detective  from  Boston,  employed  by 
Miss  Bolton,  and  myself.  There  was  a  sum  of  money 
found  on  the  body  amounting  to  something  over  five 
thousand  dollars.  It  had  been  secreted  beneath  the 
floor  of  Andrew  Bolton's  chamber,  before  his  arrest 
and  imprisonment.  It  is  probable  that  he  intended 
to  make  good  his  escape,  but  failed,  owing  to  the  ill 
ness  of  his  wife.  .  .  .  This  is  a  terrible  story,  friends, 
and  it  has  a  sad  ending.  Brookville  had  never  learned 
to  forgive.  It  had  long  ago  formed  the  terrible  habits 
of  hate:  suspicion,  envy,  sharp-tongtted  censure  and 
the  rest.  Lydia  Bolton  could  not  remain  here,  though 
it  was  her  birthplace  and  her  home.  .  .  .  She  longed 
for  friendship!  She  asked  for  bread  and  you  gave 
her  —  a  stone !  " 

The  profound  silence  was  broken  by  a  sob  from  a 
distant  corner.  The  strained  listeners  turned  with  a 
sharp  movement  of  relief. 

"  Per  pity  sake !  "  faltered  Abby  Daggett,  her  beau 
tiful,  rosy  face  all  quivering  with  grief.  "  Can't  nobody 
do  nothing?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am !  "  shouted  the  big  voice  of  Judge  Ful- 
som.  "  We  can  all  do  something.  ...  I  ain't  going 
to  sum  up  the  case  against  Brookville;  the  parson's 
done  it  already;  if  there's  any  rebuttal  coming  from 
the  defendant,  now's  the  time  to  bring  it  before  the 

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court.  .  .  .  Nothing  to  say  —  eh  ?  Well,  I  thought 
so!  We're  guilty  of  the  charges  preferred,  and  I'm 
going  to  pass  sentence.  .  .  .  But  before  I  do  that, 
there's  one  thing  the  parson  didn't  mention,  that  in  my 
opinion  should  be  told,  to  wit:  Miss  Lydia  Bolton's 
money  —  all  that  she  had  —  came  to  her  from  her 
uncle,  an  honest  hardworkin'  citizen  of  Boston.  He 
made  every  penny  of  it  as  a  soap-boiler.  So  you  see 
'twas  clean  money;  and  he  left  it  to  his  niece,  Lydia 
Bolton.  What  did  she  do  with  it  ?  You  know !  She 
poured  it  out,  right  here  in  Brookville  —  pretty  nigh 
all  there  was  of  it.  She's  got  her  place  here;  but 
mighty  little  besides.  I'm  her  trustee,  and  I  know. 
The  five  thousand  dollars  found  on  the  dead  body  of 
Andrew  Bolton,  has  been  made  a  trust  fund  for  the 
poor  and  discouraged  of  this  community,  under  con 
ditions  anybody  that'll  take  the  trouble  to  step  in  to 
my  office  can  find  out.  .  .  ." 

The  Judge  paused  to  clear  his  throat,  while  he  pro 
duced  from  his  pocket,  with  a  vast  deal  of  ceremony, 
a  legal  looking  document  dangling  lengths  of  red  rib 
bon  and  sealing  wax. 

"  This  Bond  of  Indemnity,  which  I'm  going  to  ask 
every  man,  woman  and  child  of  fifteen  years  and  up- 
'ards,  of  the  village  of  Brookville,  hereinafter  known 
as  the  Party  of  the  First  Part,  to  sign,  reads  as  fol 
lows:  Know  all  men  by  these  presents  that  we,  citi 
zens  of  the  village  of  Brookville,  hereinafter  known  as 
the  Party  of  the  First  Part,  are  held  and  firmly  bound 
unto  Miss  Lydia  Orr  Bolton,  hereinafter  known  as  the 
Party  of  the  Second  Part.  .  .  .  Whereas;  the  above- 

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named  Party  of  the  Second  Part  (don't  frget  that 
means  Miss  Lydia  Bolton)  did  in  behalf  of  her  father 
—  one  Andrew  Bolton,  deceased  —  pay,  compensate, 
satisfy,  restore,  remunerate,  recompense  and  re-quit e 
all  legal  indebtedness  incurred  by  said  Andrew  Bolton 
to,  for,  and  in  behalf  of  the  aforesaid  Party  of  the  First 
Part.  .  .  . 

"  You  git  me?  If  you  don't,  just  come  to  my  office 
and  I'll  explain  in  detail  any  of  the  legal  terms  not  un 
derstood,  comprehended  and  known  by  the  feeble 
minded  of  Brookville.  Form  in  line  at  nine  o'clock. 
First  come,  first  served: 

"  We,  the  Party  of  the  First  Part,  bind  ourselves, 
and  each  of  our  heirs,  executors,  administrators  and  as 
signs,  jointly  and  severally,  firmly  by  these  presents, 
and  at  all  times  hereafter  to  save,  defend,  keep  harm 
less  and  indemnify  the  aforesaid  Party  of  the  Second 
Part  (Miss  Lydia  Bolton)  of,  from  and  against  all 
further  costs,  damages,  expense,  disparagements  (that 
means  spiteful  gossip,  ladies!)  molestations,  slander, 
vituperations,  etc.  (I  could  say  more,  but  we've  got 
something  to  do  that'll  take  time.)  And  whereas, 
the  said  Party  of  the  Second  Part  has  been  actually 
drove  to  Boston  to  live  by  the  aforesaid  slander, 
calumniations,  aspersions  and  libels  —  which  we,  the 
said  Party  of  the  First  Part  do  hereby  acknowledge  to 
be  false  and  untrue  (yes,  and  doggone  mean,  as  I  look 
at  it)  —  we,  the  said  Party  of  the  First  Part  do  firmly 
bind  ourselves,  our  heirs,  executors,  administrators  an' 
assigns  to  quit  all  such  illegalities  from  this  day  forth, 
and  forever  more."  .  .  . 

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"  You  want  to  get  out  of  the  habit  of  talking  mean 
about  Andrew  Bolton,  for  one  thing.  It's  been  as 
catching  as  measles  in  this  town  since  I  can  remember. 
Andrew  Bolton's  dead  and  buried  in  our  cemetery, 
beside  his  wife.  We'll  be  there  ourselves,  some  day; 
in  the  meanwhile  we  want  to  reform  our  tongues.  You 
get  me  ?  All  right ! 

"  And  whereas,  we,  the  Party  of  the  First  Part, 
otherwise  known  as  the  village  of  Brookville,  do  ask, 
beg,  entreat,  supplicate  and  plead  the  f'rgiveness  of 
the  Party  of  the  Second  Part,  otherwise  known  as  Miss 
Lydia  Orr  Bolton.  And  we  also  hereby  request,  peti 
tion,  implore  an'  importune  Miss  Lydia  Orr  Bolton, 
otherwise  known  as  the  Party  of  the  Second  Part,  to 
return  to  Brookville  and  make  it  her  permanent  place 
of  residence,  promising  on  our  part,  at  all  times  here 
after,  to  save,  defend,  keep  harmless  and  indemnify 
her  against  all  unfriendliness,  of  whatever  sort;  and 
pledging  ourselves  to  be  good  neighbors  and  loving 
friends  from  the  date  of  this  document,  which,  when 
signed  by  th'  Party  of  the  First  Part,  shall  be  of  full 
force  and  virtue.  Sealed  with  our  seals.  Dated  this 
seventh  day  of  June,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  nine 
teen  hundred — " 

A  loud  uproar  of  applause  broke  loose  in  the  pause 
that  followed ;  then  the  minister's  clear  voice  called  for 
silence  once  more. 

"  The  Judge  has  his  big  fountain  pen  filled  to  its  ca 
pacity,"  he  said.  "  Come  forward  and  sign  this  —  the 
most  remarkable  document  on  record,  I  am  not  afraid 
to  say.  Its  signing  will  mean  the  wiping  out  of  an  old 

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bitterness  and  the  dawning  of  a  new  and  better  day 
for  Brookville!" 

The  Reverend  Wesley  Elliot  had  mixed  his  meta 
phors  sadly;  but  no  one  minded  that,  least  of  all  the 
minister  himself,  as  he  signed  his  name  in  bold  black 
characters  to  the  wondrous  screed,  over  which  Judge 
Fulsom  had  literally  as  well  as  metaphorically  burned 
the  midnight  oil.  Deacon  and  Mrs.  Whittle  signed; 
Postmaster  and  Mrs.  Daggett  signed,  the  latter  with 
copious  tears  flowing  over  her  smooth  rosy  cheeks. 
Miss  Lois  Daggett  was  next: 

"  I  guess  I  ought  to  be  written  down  near  the  front," 
said  she,  "  seeing  I'm  full  as  much  to  blame,  and  like 
that,  as  most  anybody." 

"  Come  on  you,  Lute  Parsons !  "  roared  the  Judge, 
while  a  group  of  matrons  meekly  subscribed  their  sig 
natures.  "  We  want  some  live  men-folks  on  this  docu 
ment.  .  .  .  Aw,  never  mind,  if  you  did!  We  all  know 
you  wa'n't  yourself  that  night,  Lucius.  .  .  .  That's 
right ;  come  right  forward !  We  want  the  signature  of 
every  man  that  went  out  there  that  night,  full  of  cussed- 
ness  and  bad  whiskey.  .  .  .  That's  the  ticket!  Come 
on,  everybody !  Get  busy !  " 

Nobody  had  attended  the  door  for  the  last  hour,  Joe 
Whittle  being  a  spellbound  witness  of  the  proceed 
ings;  and  so  it  chanced  that  nobody  saw  two  persons, 
a  man  and  a  woman  who  entered  quietly  —  one  might 
almost  have  said  timidly,  as  if  doubtful  of  a  welcome 
in  the  crowded  place.  It  was  Abby  Daggett  who 
caught  sight  of  the  girl's  face,  shining  against  the  soft 
dark  of  the  summer  night  like  a  pale  star. 

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"  Why,  my  sakes  alive!  "  she  cried,  "  if  there  ain't 
Lyddy  Bolton  and  Jim  Dodge,  now !  Did  you  ever !  " 

As  she  folded  the  girl's  slight  figure  to  her  capacious 
breast,  Mrs.  Daggett  summed  up  in  a  single  pithy 
sentence  all  the  legal  phraseology  of  the  Document, 
which  by  now  had  been  signed  by  everybody  old 
enough  to  write  their  names : 

"  Well !  we  certainly  are  glad  you've  come  home, 
Lyddy;  an'  we  hope  you'll  never  leave  us  no  more!  " 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FANNY,"  said  Ellen  suddenly;  "I  want  to  tell 
you  something." 
Mrs.   Wesley  Elliot  turned  a  complacently 
abstracted  gaze  upon  her  friend  who  sat  beside  her  on 
the  vine-shaded  piazza  of  the  parsonage.     She  felt  the 
sweetest  sympathy  for  Ellen,  whenever  she  thought  of 
her  at  all: 

"Yes,  dear." 

"  Do  you  remember  my  speaking  to  you  about  Jim  — 
Oh,  a  long  time  ago,  and  how  he — ?  It  was  per 
fectly  ridiculous,  you  know." 

Fanny's  blue  eyes  became  suddenly  alert. 

"  You  mean  the  time  Jim  kissed  you,"  she  mur 
mured.  "  Oh,  Ellen,  I've  always  been  so  sorry  for  — " 

"  Well ;  you  needn't  be,"  interrupted  Ellen ;  "  I  never 
cared  a  snap  for  Jim  Dodge ;  so  there !  " 

The  youthful  matron  sighed  gently:  she  felt  that 
she  understood  poor  dear  Ellen  perfectly,  and  in  token 
thereof  she  patted  poor  dear  Ellen's  hand. 

"  I  know  exactly  how  you  feel,"  she  warbled. 

Ellen  burst  into  a  gleeful  laugh: 

"  You  think  you  do ;  but  you  don't,"  she  informed 
her  friend,  with  a  spice  of  malice.  "  Your  case  was 
entirely  different  from  mine,  my  dear :  You  were  per 
fectly  crazy  over  Wesley  Elliot ;  I  was  only  in  love  with 
being  in  love." 

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Fanny  looked  sweetly  mystified  and  a  trifle  piqued 
withal. 

"  I  wanted  to  have  a  romance  —  to  be  madly  in 
love,"  Ellen  explained.  "  Oh,  you  know !  Jim  was 
merely  a  peg  to  hang  it  on." 

The  wife  of  the  minister  smiled  a  lofty  compassion. 

"  Everything  seems  so  different  after  one  is  mar 
ried,"  she  stated. 

"Is  that  really  so?"  cried  Ellen.  "Well,  I  shall 
soon  know,  Fan,  for  I'm  to  be  married  in  the  fall." 

"  Married?     Why,  Ellen  Duel " 

"  Uh  —  huh,"  confirmed  Ellen,  quite  satisfied  with 
the  success  of  her  coup.  "  You  don't  know  him,  Fan ; 
but  he's  perfectly  elegant  —  and  handsome!  Just 
wait  till  you  see  him." 

Ellen  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  excitedly. 

"  I  met  him  in  Grenoble  last  winter,  and  we're  going 
to  live  there  in  the  sweetest  house.  He  fell  in  love 
with  me  the  first  minute  he  saw  me.  You  never  knew 
anyone  to  be  so  awfully  in  love  .  .  .  m'm !  " 

Without  in  the  least  comprehending  the  reason  for 
the  phenomenon,  Mrs.  Wesley  Elliot  experienced  a 
singular  depression  of  spirit.  Of  course  she  was  glad 
poor  dear  Ellen  was  to  be  happy.  She  strove  to  in 
fuse  a  sprightly  satisfaction  into  her  tone  and  manner 
as  she  said: 

"  What  wonderful  news,  dear.  But  isn't  it  rather 
—  sudden  ?  I  mean,  oughtn't  you  to  have  known  him 
longer?  .  .  .  You  didn't  tell  me  his  name." 

Ellen's  piquant  dark  face  sparkled  with  mischief 
and  happiness. 

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"  His  name  is  Harvey  Wade,"  she  replied ;  "  you 
know  Wade  and  Hampton,  where  you  bought  your 
wedding  things,  Fan?  Everybody  knows  the  Wades, 
and  I've  known  Harvey  long  enough  to  — " 

She  grew  suddenly  wistful  as  she  eyed  her  friend : 

"  You  have  changed  a  lot  since  you  were  married, 
Fan;  all  the  girls  think  so.  Sometimes  I  feel  almost 
afraid  of  you.  Is  it  —  do  you  — ?  " 

Fanny's  unaccountable  resentment  melted  before  a 
sudden  rush  of  sympathy  and  understanding.  She 
drew  Ellen's  blushing  face  close  to  her  own  in  the 
sweetness  of  caresses: 

"I'm  so  glad  for  you,  dear,  so  glad!" 

"  And  you'll  tell  Jim?  "  begged  Ellen,  after  a  silence 
full  of  thrills.  "  I  should  hate  to  have  him  sup 
pose—" 

"  He  doesn't,  Ellen/'  Jim's  sister  assured  her,  out 
of  a  secret  fund  of  knowledge  to  which  she  would 
never  have  confessed.  "  Jim  always  understood  you 
far  better  than  I  did.  And  he  likes  you,  too,  better 
than  any  girl  in  Brookville." 

"  Except  Lydia,"  amended  Ellen." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  except  Lydia." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THERE  was  a  warm,  flower-scented  breeze 
stirring  the  heavy  foliage  drenched  with  the 
silver  rain  of  moonlight,  and  the  shrilling  of 
innumerable  small  voices  of  the  night.     It  all  be 
longed;  yet  neither  the  man  nor  the  woman  noticed 
anything  except  each  other;  nor  heard  anything  save 
the  words  the  other  uttered. 

"  To  think  that  you  love  me,  Lydia ! "  he  said,  tri 
umph  and  humility  curiously  mingled  in  his  voice. 

"  How  could  I  help  it,  Jim  ?  I  could  never  have 
borne  it  all,  if  you — " 

"Really,  Lydia?" 

He  looked  down  into  her  face  which  the  moonlight 
had  spiritualized  to  the  likeness  of  an  angel. 

She  smiled  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

They  were  alone  in  the  universe,  so  he  stooped  and 
kissed  her,  murmuring  inarticulate  words  of  rapture. 

After  uncounted  minutes  they  walked  slowly  on,  she 
within  the  circle  of  his  arm,  her  blond  head  against  the 
shoulder  of  his  rough  tweed  coat. 

"  When  shall  it  be,  Lydia? "  he  asked. 

She  blushed  —  even  in  the  moonlight  he  could  see 
the  adorable  flutter  of  color  in  her  face. 

"  I  am  all  alone  in  the  world,  Jim,"  she  said,  rather 
sadly.  "  I  have  no  one  but  you." 

309 


AN  ALABASTER  BOX 


"  I'll  love  you  enough  to  make  up  for  forty  rela 
tions  !  "  he  declared.  "  And,  anyway,  as  soon  as  we're 
married  you'll  have  mother  and  Fan  and  —  er  — " 

He  made  a  wry  face,  as  it  occurred  to  him  for  the 
first  time  that  the  Reverend  Wesley  Elliot  was  about 
to  become  Lydia's  brother-in-law. 

The  girl  laughed. 

"Haven't  you  learned  to  like  him  yet?"  she  in 
quired  teasingly. 

"  I  can  stand  him  for  a  whole  hour  at  a  time  now, 
without  experiencing  a  desire  to  kick  him,"  he  told 
her.  "  But  why  should  we  waste  time  talking  about 
Wesley  Elliot?" 

Lydia  appeared  to  be  considering  his  question  with 
some  seriousness. 

"  Why,  Jim,"  she  said,  looking  straight  up  into  his 
eyes  with  the  innocent  candor  he  had  loved  in  her  from 
the  beginning,  "  Mr.  Elliot  will  expect  to  marry  us." 

"  That's  so ! "  conceded  Jim ;  "  Fan  will  expect  it, 
too." 

He  looked  at  her  eagerly : 

"  Aren't  you  in  a  hurry  for  that  wonderful  brother- 
in-law,  Lydia?  Don't  you  think  — ?  " 

The  smile  on  her  face  was  wonderful  now;  he  felt 
curiously  abashed  by  it,  like  one  who  has  inadvertently 
jested  in  a  holy  place. 

"  Forgive  me,  dearest,"  he  murmured. 

"If  you  would  like  —  if  it  is  not  too  soon  —  my 
birthday  is  next  Saturday.  Mother  used  to  make  me  a 
little  party  on  my  birthday,  so  I  thought  —  it  seemed 
to  me  —  and  the  roses  are  all  in  bloom." 

310 


AN  ALABASTER  BOX 


There  was  only  one  way  to  thank  her  for  this  halt 
ing  little  speech:  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  whis 
pered  words  which  no  one,  not  even  the  crickets  in  the 
hedge  could  hear,  if  crickets  ever  were  listeners,  and 
not  the  sole  chorus  on  their  tiny  stage  of  life. 


(4) 


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80 

9   1916 
20  1919 

MA.!   8  1920 
JUN  28 


JUL  IS 

JUL  151921 

JUl  30  1921 

;a 


JUN  23  192f? 
FEB  27  1943 


50m-7,'16 


YB  74528 


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